Shelter
by the-black-drop
Summary: A look at the women who have changed Peter's life in some way, from his childhood to his teenage years and his time in Fringe Division. Companion piece to my story Heartbreak Warfare  which looks at the men in Olivia's life . T for sex, swearing, violence
1. Childhood

**Hey guys! I'm back!**

**This is a story examining Peter's relationships with certain women who've impacted his life. It's a companion piece to my story Heartbreak Warfare, which looks at the men who've affected Olivia's life, so if you haven't read that yet, please go and check it out. This one's ended up a lot longer than Heartbreak Warfare but oh well…**

**Just a warning, my Russian and Greek speaking is admittedly sketchy, so forgive me if I get something wrong in this story. Translations are at the end of each chapter.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the show**

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><p><strong>Part 1: Childhood<strong>

In the night, Peter cries.

She's used to it by now. He always gets restless when his father is away. He wakes up alone in the dark and cries out, just wanting to be held. But this doesn't bother Elizabeth, because when Walter is away for work, she often finds herself in more need of affection from her son.

Getting out of bed, she wanders to her son's room, where the 11-month-old is fussing in his cot. "Shhh," she whispers, reaching out to soothe him. "What's the matter, _agoraki mou_? Do you miss _Baba_?"

Little Peter whimpers a little and buries his face against the crook of her neck, comforted by the smell of her. She loves holding him like this, feeling his breath tickle her skin and his tiny palms press against her, holding her near. She melts into his warmth, and the milky scent of him, and the way his light dusting of brown hair grazes her cheek.

Her husband always says Peter looks like her, but all she sees when she looks down on him is his father. Peter and Walter have a simply adorable relationship. Walter's face lights up whenever they're together. Elizabeth is the tough one, trying to discipline her son, but her husband always gives Peter sugary things he's not allowed to eat, simply because he can't resist spoiling the boy. On Sundays, Walter makes pancakes for the family. He makes Peter's in the shape of whales. Whenever they're doing something cheeky together, Peter and Walter smile at each other like people sharing a secret do - slyly, like they've been plotting mischievous schemes all day. Elizabeth loves to stand back and watch these interactions, fiercely in love with them both.

Peter's calm now, babbling to himself and playing with strands of his mother's curly hair. "Hi Peter," she whispers to him, gently smoothing a hand over his head.

"Mama," he giggles, grinning up at her and pressing his little hands against her cheeks.

She laughs and kisses him. "Look at you talking!" she praises. "You're getting so big, _kamari mou_. Stop growing up!"

The little boy gurgles in response and goes back to playing with her hair. There's a low hum in the air now, and she turns to see that out the window, a blimp is flying overhead. "Look, Peter!" she whispers, pointing outside. She sees his gaze flick to her, recognising the sound of his name, before following the direction of her hand. "Look at the blimp in the sky! Your _Baba_'s coming home on one of those soon."

Peter watches the shiny blimp float slowly across the sky, mesmerised by it, before yawning adorably and resting his cheek against her chest once more. "Go to sleep, darling," she whispers to him.

Her baby nestles against her and she sighs, wishing she could guard him from the dangers of the world. It seems unfathomable that it's been a whole year since he was safe in her belly, kicking along to the classical music Walter would make her listen to. He's growing up so fast already. Of course, she imagines great things for his future, but sometimes she wishes she could keep him locked in this simple age forever, where she can love him, and protect him, make sure no harm ever comes to him.

Seeing his eyelids begin to droop, she kisses his forehead, lingering for a moment to murmur in his hair. "_S'agapo, moro mou_," she says, meaning it with all her heart.

_I love you, my baby. _

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><p>When he gets home from school, Peter's mother bombards him with questions all night. How was your day? Do you like this school? Are your teachers good? Were people nice to you? Did you make any friends?<p>

He's been there for a week but she interrogates him like it's his first day.

He answers positively to each question, though in all honesty, he doesn't like it here. They moved to Allston recently when his mother stopped being able to afford the mortgage on their old house. They're in an apartment now. It's a reasonable size for the two of them, but there's a train station nearby and the rumbling keeps him up at night. The kids at his school weren't particularly horrible. He mostly kept to himself. After being mostly homeschooled by his mother in Reiden Lake or Cambridge, it's odd being around so many people his own age. She's been working so hard she can't home school him anymore, and while this causes her much anxiety, he finds it a welcome relief. It'd be nice to actually make some friends, but for some reason his mother seems afraid something terrible will happen to him if she ever lets him experience the world outside their home.

"Did you really have a good time at school today?" she asks him again before bed, running a hand through his hair affectionately. "Are you sure you're alright?"

He sighs, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "_Nai, Mama. Olo ine endaxi_." They speak a mixture of Greek and English at home, but usually Greek works better at calming her down.

She smiles a little, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. Smoothing some of his hair away, she kisses his forehead. "_S'agapo, agapi mou_."

"_S'agapo, Mama_."

Looking into her eyes, he sees her heart break a little when he calls her his mother. She's always done this, but he doesn't understand why. Whenever he says anything remotely affectionate, or acknowledges her as his mother, something flickers in her eyes that he can't diagnose. Is it fear? Regret? Shame?

No, he decides. It's definitely guilt. And pain.

She must just be sad about the mortgage, he thinks.

Tonight, her eyes even tear up a little. "I know this is hard, Peter," she says. "I miss our old house too. But I'm doing my best, darling. I only want to do what's best for you."

"I know, Mom. It's OK. It's not your fault."

She forces another gentle smile, and he hopes with everything he has that he's made her feel a little better. He doesn't want her to blame herself for where they ended up. Because it's not her fault at all. It's _his_.

She kisses him once more, soundly. "_Petros mou, einai kalytero anthropo apo ton patera toy_," she whispers into his hair as she holds him close. It's a quiet plea, but he knows that she needs this from him. She needs him to be everything _he_ wasn't. Because _he_ ruined everything.

"I will, Mom," he promises.

"_Parakalo_," she begs softly.

"It's OK, Mom," he tells her, holding her tighter. He feels her rest her chin on the top of his head, and although he can't see her, he's sure she's trying not to cry. "It's OK, I'm right here."

He hopes that those words are enough to comfort her for now. In that moment, he truly realises the pressure that rests on his shoulders. His mother needs him to step up, study hard, get a job after school. He's the man of the house now. When _he_ went to live in the hospital and they had to move to Allston, that was childhood's end.

He's not a kid anymore.

The realisation is a punch in the gut. It's just _sad_. The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. One he can't swallow down.

He goes to bed and finds that he can't sleep. The trains are still rolling by, and the _dodeskaden, dodeskaden, dodeskaden_ sound of the wheels on the tracks reverberates through the whole apartment. Sighing, he pulls out a Green Lantern comic he got on the way home from school today and starts reading. He could have sworn it was called Red Lantern, but apparently he was wrong. The guy at the comic book store had a good time embarrassing the thirteen year old about his confusion.

Sometimes on nights like these he hears his mother crying softly in her room, but he doesn't often approach her. He's sure it will only upset her, if she found out he knows exactly how upset she is. She's worked so hard to hide it from him. Tonight she's quiet. But that may not necessarily be a good thing.

He hesitantly steps out of his room to check on her, though he's pretending to raid the fridge for a midnight snack. He finds her passed out on the couch, an almost-empty wine bottle on the table next to her. Sighing, he finds a blanket and pulls it over her body, making sure she's alright.

It's then that he notices the small patch of blood staining her shirt near her wrist.

He sees this and wants to cry. She promised she would stop.

Pulling back the cuff of her shirt a little, he finds the small cut she's made, dried blood smearing her other light scars. It's only a small one tonight, and he's grateful that she hasn't done too much damage. Maybe she's getting better.

He's heard of other people doing this before. Cutting their wrists. Girls talked about doing it at school sometimes. Doing it doesn't necessarily mean you want to kill yourself, he's learned. Apparently it feels good – deliciously painful. It's a release. What the girls at school never mentioned was that if you cut too deep, you can ruin the tendons in your wrist. His mother still has trouble writing with that hand sometimes. The doctor said it might never completely heal.

But as far as that doctor knew, she'd cut herself accidentally on some glass. Peter had backed up this story. His mother had made him lie. He had been too afraid of what she'd do to herself if he disobeyed her.

Remembering that time, he shudders. "Please don't do it again, Mom," he whispers, pulling the cuff of her shirt over her scars, wishing he could make them go away. "You promised me you'd stop."

Peter realises he's crying and hastily wipes his face. He hates his life right now. He wants to go back to when things were happy. It's a dream-like place in the dark corners of his memory that he barely recalls, but he knows it existed once. A world where his mother and father were together, and happy, and where he was happy too. He dreams about that place sometimes. But that's all it is. A dream.

Knowing that his mother is safely passed out on the couch, Peter takes her keys and lets himself out. He's started sneaking out since they moved. He's started doing a lot of things he didn't do before. He swears a lot. He throws rocks at windows. He picks up every half-lit discarded cigarette he can find, even though they're practically useless. He shoplifts spray-paint and makes his mark on the walls of alleyways. He doesn't have any real reason for wanting to do these things. No reason except that he's angry.

He feels like a person wandering the earth without memory or context. He doesn't know anyone else whose Dad lives in a hospital. He doesn't know any other kid who has had to move to a crappy apartment because he's poor now, or whose Mom drinks so much she wants to die.

He is, and has always been, alone in the world.

**Please leave a review! I'll post the next two parts soon. Coming up we take a look at the women/girls who made an impact on Peter in his teenage years. Stay tuned!**

**Oh, and please check out my story Heartbreak Warfare if you haven't already : )**

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><p><strong>Greek Translations:<strong>

**_Agoraki mou_ = My little boy **

**_Kamari mou_ – I'm not sure if there's an English version of this, but it's a term of endearment you use for someone you are proud of**

**_Baba_ = Dad/Daddy**

**_Nai, Mama. Olo ine endaxi_ = Yes, Mom. Everything's fine. **

**_S'agapo, agapi mou _= I love you, my darling**

**_Mou_ = means "my", but when used after a name can be a sign of affection, e.g. "Petros mou" is something like "My Peter"**

**_Einai kalytero anthropo apo ton patera toy _= "Be a better man than your father". The words used in the show, "_Na einai kalytero anthropo apo ton patera tou_" translate to something more like "He is a better man than his father", or a wish like "May he be a better man than his father"**

**_Parakalo_ = Please**

**Haha, sorry, I'm second generation Australian so my Greek isn't the best, lol. Please correct me in a review if I got something wrong**


	2. Bodies

**OK, I promise that when I started to think up this story, I wanted it to just be a one-shot, but now it's way too long. It'll probably be at least 5 chapters now. Oh well, that's just more for you to read!**

**Part 2 - Bodies**

Peter feels like he's flying.

He loves this part of skating, when he goes really fast doing crossovers, letting his blades rip the ice making that steady _shu-rook, shu-rook, shu-rook_ sound. Mostly he loves the way the girls eye him as he passes them, pivoting on his hockey skates to toss them a smile, showing off. He loves the attention – they way they giggle, blushing and whispering "_Oh my God, he's so cute!_" to each other as they hold hands in groups, fumbling their way across the ice together. He's lost a lot of weight in his recent growth spurt, so he enjoys the way girls are reacting to him in ways they didn't before.

He's had this part-time job for a while now. It's not bad. He spends most of his time doing rounds on the ice and getting skates for cute girls. The private training sessions for the figure skaters are the best. He and the other guys working there have nothing to do, so they lean against the boards and watch the girls go by, twirling in those tight leotards that make Peter's hormone-ravaged head spin. The girls don't mind. They like the attention as much as anyone else. If anything, it's the coaches that will shoo them away.

Tonight, it's just a general session, so Peter skates around making sure all is well. He hears someone call his name and sees his friend Marcus at the boards, waving him over. Peter skates to him. Marcus is older, maybe 17, and is into a lot of bad stuff. But Peter doesn't really care, because Marcus is always looking out for him, dragging him on some late-night crime-fuelled adventure. Neither of them have fathers around, so on the rare occasion that Marcus stoned enough to manage deep and meaningful conversation, Peter's found common ground with him that he hasn't found anywhere else.

"Hey, man," Marcus says, grinning.

"Hey. What are you so happy about?" Peter laughs.

"I got laid last night," he brags, but shrugs like it's nothing. Like he does it 50 times a day.

"Good for you. Does your ass still hurt?" Peter jokes.

That comment earns him a sharp smack on the back of the head, but Marcus laughs along. Then he describes the night before. In vivid detail. Peter hangs off of every word, though he assumes Marcus is exaggerating, even if it's just a little bit. Peter knows the girl he's talking about, too. She's two grades above him at school, but Peter's smart enough to take the same science and maths classes. She's got tits the size of Texas, flawless mocha skin, a pretty smile and always shows off her bare legs in mini-skirts, even if it's cold. The word around school is that she gives unbelievable head. Peter knows this girl is way out of his league, and feels a pang of jealousy towards his friend. He'd kill to be half as cool as Marcus one day.

Marcus finishes his recount and smirks. "So Pete, you fucked anyone yet?"

At first, Peter thinks he's joking and laughs nervously. But then he remembers that this isn't the sheltered, suburban neighbourhood he grew up in. He lives in the inner city now. Things are edgier here. Gritter. In these parts, you grow up quick.

"Yeah," he says simply, shrugging.

But Marcus laughs at the lie. "No you haven't," he says, seeing right through him. "How old are you anyway?"

"Fourteen."

"Fourteen," Marcus repeats. "You gotta start fucking when you're fourteen, man. It's like a rule or something."

Peter swallows. Nods. He doesn't really know what to say to that.

"You doing anything tonight?" Marcus asks.

"Nah."

"Meet me out back after work, I wanna take you somewhere."

"Alright," Peter says, but he's not sure why he agrees. Probably because all of Marcus' stories sound so adventurous, and he wants to start making cool stories of his own.

After Peter finishes his shift, he helps Marcus steal a car. Rain bleeds down the windows as drive further into the city. Marcus offers Peter a cigarette and he takes it. He doesn't particularly like the taste, but he loves to lie back and watch the smoke roll out of his mouth like the waves in Chinese ink paintings.

They meet up with some of their friends outside a strip club. Peter's driven past them before, but he's never actually made it inside. Marcus and the others have to hassle the bouncer to let Peter in, since he's younger than the rest of them. It seems ridiculous to Peter that he can't get into a club like this after all the shit he's been doing with the guys. What's even more absurd is that he has to go to school the next day.

Eventually they get in. Peter's eyes go wide. It's just like in the movies, but sleazier. The seedy middle-aged alcoholics ogling at the girls are slightly disturbing, but Peter ignores them. He only has eyes for the women on stage. He's never seen so many practically naked girls like this in the flesh before, and it's fascinating.

Marcus' friends find a set of couches to sit on, and before long they're knocking back shots, and Tommy's teaching Peter about the best way to do the salt-tequila-lemon combo off a girl's body. They guys laugh and comment to each other on each of the dancers, evaluating every single aspect of their bodies. Peter mostly sits back quietly and takes it in, or nods in agreement. He's literally speechless. It's a lot to adjust to, and he's terrified of embarrassing himself like a stupid kid in front of these older guys.

A dancer leans over their table to pour them more shots, and it isn't until her bare breasts are practically dangling in Peter's face that he almost loses it. He's painfully hard by this point, and his biggest fear is that he'll come in his pants or do something equally mortifying. Noticing his wide eyes, Marcus slaps him only the shoulder encouragingly. "Having fun, buddy?" he laughs. Then he turns to the dancer and hands her some cash. "Show this one a good time for me, sweetheart," he says to her, pushing Peter in her direction.

The dancer takes Peter's hand and pulls him away from his friends, but he backs away. "What? No!" he exclaims in surprise. He knew being here with the guys was stupid, but he never thought it'd go this far. "It's alright," he says to the dancer. "You don't have to. It's fine."

"What's the matter, Bishop, you a fag or something? Do you even know what to do with her?" Sean laughs.

"I'm not a fucking faggot!" he snaps angrily. As a 14 year old guy, it's just about the worst thing anyone can call him. The only thing more insulting would be to say he was just like his father.

"For fuck's sake, relax, Pete. You've gotta do it sometime," Marcus says. "She's good, trust me. Just have fun. You can thank me later."

"Yeah, Bishop, be a fucking man for once."

Before he knows it, he's being pressured by the whole group, and he wonders why the hell these guys are his friends. That topless dancer is still tugging deliciously on his hand. Her thumb traces a light circle on his palm. It's getting too hard to say no. Part of him wants to go with this girl, but it feels wrong. She can hardly be called a girl. This woman's double his age, at least.

That being said, he doesn't want to look like an idiot in front of his friends either. So he lets them all push him down the corridor at the back of the club to one of the rooms down there. Peter swallows. This isn't what he thought it would be at all. He expected this sort of thing to be glamorous or exciting in some way but instead he just finds it sleazy and kind of sad.

Before he knows it, the door is closed and it's just the two of them. There's not much in the room. A couple of couches, a fridge. It must be an employee common room or something. It's grimy, and smells like stale cigarette smoke, alcohol and sex. The paint's peeling near the ceiling and a cockroach scurries away in the corner. It's cold.

Aroused? Sex is the last thing on his mind now. He can't possibly do anything with a woman twice his age in a place as filthy as this.

She locks the door.

He's overwhelmed by nerves. He can't look at her. She laughs at him and that only makes him feel worse. "Relax, kid. You want a beer or something?"

His stomach clenches at her words as he is reminded that, despite all his pretending, he is, after all, just a kid. He doesn't belong in a place like this, where seedy men old enough to be his father, probably married with kids, drink themselves stupid and treat the girls like dirt. Peter admittedly enjoyed looking, and he messes around a little with girls at school, but his blood doesn't run this kind of cold.

"We don't have to do anything," he mumbles, staring at his shoes. "You can put a shirt on or whatever. If you want."

Clearly she wasn't expecting him to say that, because she doesn't say or do anything.

"I'll pay you for the time," he assures her. "But you don't have to do anything."

He feels like a fucking idiot. She's hot, practically naked and willing, and he's saying _no_? Any other guy his age would kill for this opportunity. His hormones are screaming at him to just do it already. But inside he feels sick, and embarrassed. This isn't what he wants at all. Not really.

Without saying anything, she looks for an item of clothing and finds a t-shirt lying around, slipping in over her bare chest. It falls over her underwear, about mid-thigh, so it looks like she's wearing nothing underneath. Then she hands him a Coke from the fridge.

"Nah, I don't want anything," he reminds her.

She shrugs and hands it to him anyway. "It'll pass the time. If you go back to your friends now, they'll know you chickened out," she teases.

By now, his face is red with embarrassment. He looks anywhere but at her.

"Don't worry about it," she tells him, taking a seat on the couch. "It happens all the time."

"Really?" he scoffs.

"You'd be surprised."

That makes him wonder how many others have been in this room, fumbling over their words and handing her a handful of cash for doing absolutely nothing. It also makes him wonder what she's had to do for the guys who actually want their money's worth. He feels sorry for her.

He sips his Coke pensively, trying to calm his nerves. He knows his friends are waiting outside for him, ready to ask him for every detail. "What are they gonna think we did?"

"Marc gave me enough money for a fuck."

The way that she says that so carelessly makes him cringe a little on the inside. It's odd to hear a price tag attached to sex. It's even stranger to think that you could put a price on _her_. In that moment, his respect for Marcus takes a nosedive.

But he has to ask. "Do you think they'd believe we really did it?"

She smirks. "Is that what you're going to tell them?"

"Probably," he admits. "If I can get away with it."

"You can get away with any lie if you make it believable enough."

"Any advice then?" he asks. "For when I go back out there?"

She smirks, and he realises she has a really pretty smile. Kind. Subtle. Then she leans over and ruffles his hair a bit, tugging on his clothes so they seem suspiciously dishevelled. He knows he's trying to respect this woman, but he can't help but shudder at the feel of her hands on him. Pulling back, she eyes her work and nods. "That'd help," she says. "Just keep that dumbstruck look on your face, that's the main thing."

He chuckles, still embarrassed. "Thanks."

"You're a real good looking kid, you know," she says, running her hand through his hair again. "You don't really need to be here. You could probably find a girl your own age just fine."

"I know. I don't like it here," he admits.

"Neither do I."

"Then why do you work here?"

She shrugs. "Pays the bills. I got a kid, so…"

"Right," Peter says. "Boy or girl?"

"Boy." Her face lights up a little when she says it. Peter can't help but smile back. The gleam in her eyes is infectious and sweet. Something tells him so many men stare at her body on a daily basis that nobody's ever actually looked this woman in the eyes for a long time.

"Does he know what you do?" he asked curiously.

"He's 18 months old," she explained. "He doesn't really know much of anything yet. I'm saving though, so I can move to a better job before he gets older. Problem is, I earn more here in a night than most of my friends do in a week at their jobs. The money's too good here for me to give it up right now."

"Fair enough," he says, nodding.

She checks her watch. "You shouldn't stay too long," she says. "You're just a kid so you would have been quick."

He blushes some more and stares at the ground. "Thanks."

"No problem. Just do me a favour and tell them I rocked your goddamn world, alright?" she jokes.

"Of course," he laughs along. "Best I ever had." Then he looks into her eyes again. He's grateful she hasn't made him feel like a _total_ idiot. She seems like such a nice person. In a way he feels privileged, like he's seeing a part of her nobody else in this club will ever see. Like he's not just seeing her body – he's seeing _her_. He'll probably never look at a stripper the same way again after this.

Also, if he's going to tell all his friends he slept with her, he needs to know one more thing. "What's your name?" he asks.

"Candy."

"You're real one."

She smirks a little, runs a hand through her hair. "Alice."

He smiles. She looks like an Alice. The name had a deceiving innocence. He shakes her hand courteously. "It's been nice knowing you, Alice."

"You too," she laughs. "Listen, don't let those guys push you around. And make sure you find yourself a nice girl your own age at school, alright?"

"Alright," he laughs.

He gets out his wallet.

"Don't worry," she says. "Marcus already paid me."

He shakes his head. "For your son," he says, handing her more money. Lots of it. "Buy him something nice. Or take him out. Do something together. I dunno. Whatever."

For a moment, he thinks he sees tears in her eyes, but she blinks them away. There's a subtle look of shame in her face, and he knows needs the money too much to proudly refuse his charity. "Thank you," she says emphatically, and he just nods in acknowledgement. Stepping closer, gives him a gentle kiss on the cheek and hugs him. He hugs her back. She's all soft, and he can't help but shiver at the feel of her half-naked body pressed against his. Nonetheless, that embrace and kiss isn't cheap – it's affectionate and purposeful and full of gratitude – and when she pulls back, he sees that her smile is worth more than anything else she could have done for him in that room.

**Please leave a review! It would definitely cheer my up through my exam study, haha**

**Coming up next, Peter's first serious girlfriend…**


	3. Broken Glass

**Warning: my Russian is very basic, so please don't be too harsh if I get something wrong, Russian readers! Peter said once that he used to date a Russian girl, so I figured she needed a mention : )**

So for a while, the girl Peter Bishop "officially" lost his virginity to was Alice. After finding out he was on the market for that sort of thing, girls at school began claiming they'd slept with him too. But none of the rumours are true, not even the ones he started.

In the end, the girl he actually lost his virginity to is Nadya Levieva.

It's actually serious between them. She is his first real girlfriend, but more than that, she is his best friend. He doesn't think he loves her – he didn't know what it meant to love someone, really – but she gets him in a way that nobody else does. She's staggeringly beautiful - not in the conventional way, but actually classically beautiful. Although she was born here, her parents are Russian so she's got this tiny ballerina body, curly light brown hair, the softest skin Peter's ever touched and eyes that turn him to jelly. He loves exploring the intimate details of her body, seeing just how different she is from him. Her lips taste like sweetness and dynamite. He loves those moments when he touches her just right, and he can feel her moans roll into his mouth. He finds it so damn sexy when she speaks Russian, especially when she plants sweet kisses against his skin and whispers things he can only imagine are dirty as hell, just to drive him crazy. So far she's only taught him how to curse, but he learns a little on his own so he can tell her that she's beautiful and stuff like that.

He's glad she's not the cheerleader type. Those girls bore him, with their predictable taste and conformist ways. Talk to more than one and you realise they're all the same. He finds Nadya intriguing because she's different – a misfit, edgy. She's angry a lot, like him, and everything she does is a giant "fuck you" to the world. She acts like she's fearless and like she doesn't give a shit about a damn thing, but she does. She's an emotional whirlwind and Peter has trouble keeping up sometimes.

Unlike him, she's really talented. Nadya's a street artist. She never goes anywhere without spray paint. Peter's learned to recognise which paintings are hers all around the city. He can always spot them amid the senseless tagging and faded graffiti because unlike all that, her art is actually _good_. She paints Banksy-style dystopian images of babies in gas masks and little girls in pink dresses lynching the president. She reads all the time, has a heart for music, studies ballet and is super smart. Her mother was a classical Russian ballet teacher, and since she died, dancing has become Nadya's whole life.

Sometimes she goes to the ballet studio after hours to practise, and she lets him watch. It's not just prancing around, he's discovered. It's an intense sport. She practices day and night, always doing physiotherapy for her ankle issues, working out and watching what she eats. There's so much pain and hard-work involved, but she makes it look effortless. He'll watch her in amazement, counting in his head the number of revolutions she can do en pointe without losing her balance. The only time he ever sees her completely whole is when she's dancing. She moves with so much passion and intensity that it astounds him. She dances like she's unstoppable.

She has her sights on an internship with some ballet company in New York. She's got this perfectionist drive and a dream and he doesn't have any of that. He knows she'll probably grow up one day and do big things with her life. He, on the other hand, doesn't feel like he's going anywhere.

Often, during those ballet practise sessions, she doesn't get much practicing done. Because Peter's so caught up in her beauty and her intensity that he has to touch her. Most times she'll put up a half-hearted protest, saying she really needs to focus on her training, but he's charming enough to persuade her to do just about anything. All he has to do is hoist her up, press her against the mirrors and kiss her, and the rest is inevitable. Or other times, when he takes off her ballet shoes and massages her ankles, he'll start kissing up her leg and that'll be enough to make her surrender. He gets so possessive when he watches her dance, and while normally the feminist in her would be annoyed, she secretly loves it. She loves being with him here, loves the way their moans echo through the studio, the way their every move is reflected a thousand times over and the way the mirror behind them is left slightly fogged up and smeared with their handprints afterwards. Sometimes, as they catch their breaths, she breathes on the mirror, takes a finger and writes their initials inside a love heart. This makes Peter chuckle nervously, and she wonders if that simple gesture was saying too much. Neither of them have said they love the other yet, simply because neither of them have been in love before or know what it means, but they both have a sneaking suspicion that they've already said it, somehow, wordlessly.

Sometimes they'll drive out somewhere quiet together to have sex or smoke or just talk until 4am. They drink cheap vodka she steals from her Dad. They like the way it burns their throats. On nights like these, they often bond over the fact that their families are so fucked up, and they're in the middle of it all – like they're holding each other in the eye of a storm. The fact that she's troubled and angry like him means he doesn't have to pretend with her, he can be himself, and he finds it a relief from the way he has to maintain his image at school. And since his mother's too drunk to notice him half the time, he feels like Nadya's the only person in the world who even gives a shit about him. It's an odd feeling.

They've been seeing each other for about eight months now, which is more than any of his friends can say for themselves. He brags to the guys about the sex, though often exaggerating the details. He leaves certain parts out of these retellings, like how during their first time, he was so nervous about hurting her that his hands couldn't stop shaking. Or how, whenever he sleeps with her, one of his favourite parts is afterwards, when he just gets to hold her and take in the details of her body, letting his fingers play with her long, curly hair or trace constellations between the freckles on her back. When she sleeps in his arms like that, he can watch her for hours, and he feels invincible, like he can protect her from anything.

To him, Nadya is broken glass - beautiful, but sharp. His job is to piece her back together. He likes that she doesn't know she's beautiful, or brave, or a good person - but she is. He gets to show her, and it makes him feel like he's doing something good for once in his life. She's the only thing in the world he feels he has any reason to fight for.

But she fights for him, too. No matter what shit he might be dealing with in his life, she is there. She is a warm breath on the back of his neck, and a warm belly pressed against his. She is the smell that lingers on his pillow, and in his shirt after she wears it. She is a comforting hand, cradling his own. She is soft skin against his calloused palms. She is the murmur of encouraging words in his ear. She is home.

Shit. Maybe he does love her.

But he hasn't seen her in a while. She hasn't been at school this week. He's tried calling her house but when her Dad answers, he angrily tells Peter never to call again. He wonders what he's done wrong. Everything was going fine.

Tonight, he decides that the silence is killing him and he just needs to know what he did to upset Nadya. She should have called him back by now, right? He must have done something terrible, but part of him doesn't have the courage to find out what.

He takes his mom's car and drives straight to her house. He doesn't have a license, but it's not like his mom's going to be using it. It's past midnight by now. When he gets there, he creeps around to the back of the house where her bedroom window is, tapping on it. "Nadya," he whispers. "Nadya, wake up."

No answer.

"Baby, please. Whatever I did, I'm sorry, OK? Just talk to me."

Again, the only response is silence. He's just about to walk away when she opens the window. He's startled by what he sees. She's just in a singlet and underwear, which she always sleeps in, but her eyes are puffy and red from crying. Her lip is split, cheek bruised. Her skin is white – sickly even. She looks like she's in pain. Even in that dark, he can see that she's trembling. But she swallows. Hardens herself. Refuses to cry.

"Go away," she says, her shaky voice betraying her as she tries to be strong.

"What happened?"

"Please. Just go."

Clenching his fists, he fumes. He knows her Dad gets violent sometimes. She hasn't told him, but he's seen the bruises and put two and two together. "Did he do this to you?"

"You need to leave, Peter. I mean it."

"Just tell me what's going on," he says. "And I'll go."

She shakes her head, looking down, and tears leak out the edges of her eyes. He takes her face in his palm, wiping away a single tear with the pad of his thumb as he leans his forehead against hers. "Dia, please," he whispers. "Just tell me what happened. I miss you."

It starts with a whimper. Then her self-control ruptures and she's shaking, sobbing. Not waiting for her permission, he scrambles through her window and holds her close, not knowing what else to do. "Shhhh, baby," he whispers. "It's OK. I'll look after you. It's alright…"

As he comforts her, he scans over her body. As well as the damage to her face, her arms are covered in finger-shaped bruises. "Jesus, Dia…"

She holds onto him to brace herself, and he feels her hands shaking. This shocks him. Nadya has the steadiest hands he knows. She pulls back and shakes her head, her tragically beautiful face red with tears. He's never seen her face like this. Not even after her mother died. It's all soft.

"I think it would be best," she cries quietly, "if we didn't see each other anymore."

If she wasn't so upset, he would probably laugh. But she's serious. He pulls back a little. Those words feel like a punch in the gut. "Why?"

"It's not your fault," she cries, unable to look at him. "It's mine."

"What's your fault?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for him to find out. I'm so sorry."

"Find out _what_? What's going on, Dia?"

Just then, her father storms into the room, and for a moment, everything stops. The man stands at the door, fuming with rage at the sight of Peter holding his half-naked daughter. Peter's stomach clenches. Part of him wants to beat this man to death for the way he's been treating Nadya. The rest of him wants to jump out that window before he gets beaten to death himself.

"Mr Levieva," Peter says politely, trying to calm him down. "It's not what it looks like. I just wanted to talk to her."

"I told you not to step foot in this house," her father spits at him, his Russian accent thick and furious.

The man takes a step towards Peter, fists clenched, but Nadya moves between them, crying. "_Papa, ne_," she begs. Peter doesn't know much Russian, but he understands that she's trying to protect him.

He father ignores her, grabbing her and shoving her roughly aside so he can get closer to Peter. Seeing this, Peter is filled with rage and lunges for the older man, hitting him. "Don't touch her like that!" he screams. It just comes out of him. He doesn't know where it comes from, this fight, but he knows it's all for Nadya.

The man spits blood from his mouth and punches him back. Each blow sparks a bonfire on Peter's skin. A metallic taste filled the cracks between his teeth. He fights back, but can't manage much. It's harder than fighting guys his own age at school.

"_You_ are the one who needs to learn how not to touch my daughter!" the man shouts, punching Peter in the stomach. Hard.

Peter takes a panicked heap of air inside his chest, coughing and collapsing into a ball on the ground. He cries out as he takes further kicks to the stomach.

Nadya is screaming. "_Perestan, Papa_!" she sobs. "_Umolyayu, perestan!_"

"_Zhatknis_!" her father snaps, raising his hand as if to strike her. She flinches, her screams reduced to only quiet, pathetic whimpers.

Peter tries to get up, but is only hit in the face again. The pain is sudden and astonishing. "Don't touch my daughter again," the man growls.

"Sir…" he tries, but is hit again.

"You come into my house," he spits furiously. "And you turn my daughter into a whore."

"No, sir, I never…"

Another hit.

"_Umolyayu, Papa_!" Nadya cries. Peter knows that word. _Please_.

"Don't tell me you've never touched her," her father tells Peter. "I know you're the one who got her pregnant."

"What?" Peter gasps, fear ripping through his stomach. He steals a quick glance at Nadya. She's on the floor in a ball, back against the wall, head in her hands. She's sobbing relentlessly. She can't look at him. Immediately, he knows it's not a lie, but he has to ask. "Is it true? You're pregnant?"

"She's not anymore," her father mutters disdainfully. "I took her to the clinic yesterday. It's done."

For a moment, Peter is speechless. That's why Nadya looks sick. That's why she hasn't been at school. That's why she's covered in bruises from her Dad. That's why she hasn't called him back, and why she cried so hard when he showed up at her house anyway.

He got her pregnant. And now, their baby is dead.

"My Nadya was a respectable girl before she met you," her father snarls through gritted teeth, looking down on Peter in disgust. "You've brought shame on her and her family. You've ruined her life. I hope you're happy."

At those words, Peter suddenly finds fury inside him he didn't know was there, pushing back against Nadya's father and hitting him with all he has. "HOW COULD YOU DO THIS?" he screams. "She's your daughter! How could you do this to her? I'm gonna fucking kill you!"

He's barely aware of what he's saying. He doesn't realise he's sobbing the words as he screams them, tears and snot and blood streaming down his face. Peter's filled with murderous rage. Not just because her father beats her, but because he forced her to get an abortion too. He doesn't understand why it bothers him as much as it does. They wouldn't have been able to handle a baby anyway. For God's sake, they're sixteen. It would have ruined her chances of getting that ballet scholarship. But from the way Nadya is crying, he knows she didn't want this. It wasn't her father's decision. It was _theirs_.

Peter pounds his fists against her father's chest, barely feeling the blows the man throws back. No pain he feels on the outside can compare to the pain he feels on the inside. Then he gets hit one last time. Peter doesn't see the fist coming until it hits him right between the eyes. It sends him backward. He hits his head.

"Peter!" Nadya screams, rushing to him.

The pain in his body goes from something real to something abstract. He's fading out.

"No, baby, keep your eyes open," she tells him. He feels her warm hands on his face. They comfort him.

Her face appears in his line of vision and she shakes him softly to keep him awake. Her eyes are red from crying. The soft sound of sirens starts to grow a little louder and Nadya breathes a sigh of relief. "Peter, it's OK. Someone's coming."

"I'm sorry, Dia," he groans, barely conscious. His voice is rougher than usual. Raw. He barely recognises that it comes from himself. "I fucked up. I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault," she cries.

The back of his head feels warm and wet. He groans. Tries to keep his eyes open. "I…I can't…"

"Stay awake, Peter. I'm right here."

"My head…"

"Hold on. The ambulance is coming." Her voice gets caught in a sick, wet choke. She bitterly scrunches her eyes shut, tears leaking out the edges. A single sob escapes her, then another, the noise resounding. Not knowing what else to do, she desperately reaches for his hand and squeezes. She shakes. Peter uses all his strength to feebly squeeze back.

Before he blacks out, one last feeling refuses to let go of his brain: self-loathing. Maybe it's for the best, what her Dad did. He would have been a shitty parent anyway. Like father, like son. That girl's better off without him. In all honesty, he probably wouldn't have stuck around to help her raise the baby. He's been waiting for any excuse to run away from Boston. Nadya was the only thing keeping him here, but that'll never be the same now.

This is all because of him. He's a loser. A total piece of shit. The only possible product of an alcoholic mother and a psycho dad. He's going nowhere. He has no future. The one thing he had going for him in his life, he just fucked up.

The realisation is sickening. He ruins everything he touches. Even Nadya.

**Please review! Coming up next, Peter's high school teacher…**

* * *

><p><strong>Russian translations:<strong>

**_Papa, ne. _=Dad, don't.**

**_Perestan, Papa! _= Stop it, Dad! **

**_Zhatknis! _= Shut up!**

**_Umolyayu _= Please (emphatic, begging; a more casual word for "please" is _pazhalsta_) **


	4. Tragedy Bound

**Part 4 – Tragedy Bound**

Peter doesn't believe in God, but he thanks him any way for his lack of a cellmate.

He's just in lock-up at the local station. He's not in for anything too serious. Just underage drinking and affray. Minor charges, considering there's worse shit he's been doing that nobody's caught him on. Luckily it's a weeknight and the station's pretty empty. The cops said they left messages for his mother and would have to wait for her to pick him up, since they can't release him until an adult signs him out. "Don't hold your breath," he told them.

Now, he lies back on the bench in lock-up, trying to get some sleep. But he can't. Drunk as he is, he finds it impossible to nod off. Outside, the world spins madly on. A guard shouts to a prisoner. Phones ring. Sirens fly away. Vandals rattle their cages and hostile footsteps march to a drumless beat.

It's not his first arrest. That was for shoplifting cigarettes when he was 13, then again at 15 for vandalism. At school he's been suspended for fighting, truanting and selling essays to other students who are too lazy to do the work themselves. He sells stolen cell phones and stuff at school too. He's just trying to make money any way he can, just so he can get out of Boston. The only thing he promised himself was that he'd never get caught up selling drugs. After seeing what alcohol's done to his mother and what harder drugs have done to some of his friends, it's an industry he wants nothing to do with.

He's barely in class these days. He usually skips to gamble over a poker game, smoke or find one of the brainless cheerleader types to make out with him or, if they're feeling generous, give him head in the change rooms by the football field. Girls like that will give him whatever he wants simply because he's got James Dean-esque bad boy appeal, but will rarely ask him to reciprocate, which he likes because it means he doesn't have to waste time taking them out or faking that he cares. He's messed around with a lot of girls since Nadya, simply because he just doesn't give a shit about anything anymore. He's never had a real girlfriend since her, but he'll get as far as he can with any girl who'll let him near her. And he never forgets to pack a condom in his wallet anymore. After Nadya, he learned.

He hopes no one else comes to share his cell tonight. He's had some close calls in lock-up before. At least, this way, he won't have to watch his back all night. He knows no one's coming to get him. He's only got his mother, and she probably passed out drunk hours ago.

Nobody's coming.

But by now, he's used to expecting that.

It's dark now. Lights out. Peter feels around his own face, trying to assess his injuries even in his drunken stupor. His lip feels swollen and split, his left eye stings like a bitch and he tastes blood between his teeth. His ribs feel bruised as well. But the nurse at the station said he was alright, so he's not sweating it.

After a while, the lights snap on and he squints. "What the fuck…" he groans. He hears footsteps coming towards him. He turns his head to see a familiar cop unlocking his cell. Damn it. "You bringing me a cellmate, McCoy?"

"Not tonight, Bishop. You're getting out."

That shocks him into silence for a moment. "My Mom's here?"

"Not your mom. Some teacher. Come on, move your ass, don't keep the lady waiting."

"Yes sir," he responds with sarcastic enthusiasm, groaning in pain as he sits up and stumbles back out into the foyer. He's surprised that someone's come for him, but he doesn't care who it is. He's just glad to be out.

But even so, he's a little shocked when he sees Mrs Owen, the school guidance counsellor and his chemistry teacher, standing impatiently at the front desk. He won't admit it, but he's always liked her. Not for the reason you'd think. Most of the guys in his class think she's hot, simply because she's young and attractive and just out of their reach, but Peter likes her because she's the only one of his teachers who hasn't given up on him yet. She's only like 24 or 25, and is still naïve enough to think she can really change her students. He's a total dickhead in her class (when he shows up) but she doesn't take it lying down. She yells at him about his grades, asks how his mother's doing. While most of his teachers are waiting for the end of the year so they can be done with having him in his class, she actually cares where he ends up in life. Sometimes, he thinks she's the only one in the world that does.

The young woman sees him and looks him over, concerned. "Peter, are you alright?"

"Mrs Owen?" he laughs, still a little drunk. It's odd seeing her in casual clothes. "Boy, am I glad to see you."

"They called me when they couldn't get through to your mother," she explains. "Since the cops can't let you go until and adult signs you out, I thought I may as well pick you up."

"Huh…'preciate it, Miss."

He remembers then that after he was in hospital following the fight with Nadya's dad earlier that year, Mrs Owen put herself down as his secondary emergency contact in case his mother couldn't be reached. He'd forgotten about that. He feels guilty. Embarrassed. She's actually worked bloody hard to clean him up, and having her see him in lock-up like this makes him feel like he's failed her, in a way. But he brushes off those thoughts, trying to focus on being glad he's getting out.

"Sign here," a cop says, handing him a release form.

"Happy to," he replies, still chuckling under his breath. He can't believe he's out.

The cop hands Peter his belongings, except the cigarettes they confiscated, and he puts on his leather jacket.

"You're awful lucky, Bishop. Having a teacher offer to come get you out like this."

"What can I say?" Peter slurs, his best charm smile on his face. "The woman's in love with me. Can't stay away. She finds me irresistible."

"You're drunk, and I'm married," Mrs Owen snaps. "Move your ass, Bishop."

"Yes, ma'am," he chuckles. He throws the cops a wave as he leaves with her. "See you next time, fellas!"

"Looking forward to it!" one of them calls back, and he laughs.

But his teacher is less than impressed. "What were you in for this time?" Straight to the point. She was always no-nonsense like that.

"Bar fight," he says simply, shrugging.

"Right. Why couldn't they get onto your mom?"

"She's probably working," he lies. He knows she doesn't buy it – she has her suspicions about his mother – but he's grateful she doesn't make a big deal about it. "Look Miss, real sweet of you to get me out and everything – I owe you one – but I gotta get home."

He starts to walk away, but he doesn't make it far before she's yelling after him. "Where do you think you're going?"

He stops. "I just told you."

"I can't let you go home," she sighs. "It's a duty of care issue. Until we can reach your mother, I've got to make sure you stay under adult supervision."

"So what, I have to be babysat by you all night?"

"Pretty much," she seethes. "Look, I'm not happy about this either, but I'm your teacher, you're in my care and it's the law. I can't let you walk home anyway. You're so drunk you'll pass out on the street or get hit by a bus before you get there."

"S'fuckin bullshit," Peter slurs under his breath.

"You've got no idea," she snaps, clearly pissed off. "Get in the car, Bishop."

He grins. "Anyone ever told you you're cute when you're angry, Miss?"

"Get your ass in the car, now."

"Alright, alright, don't shoot," he jokes, raising his hands in defence. Chuckling at her attitude, he can't help but obey and gets in the car.

They're about to start driving when she remembers something. "Shit…" she mutters under her breath. It's odd. He's never heard her swear before. But he supposes she's a different person off-duty. Teachers are human after all.

"What is it?"

She pulls out her phone. "I have to call my husband. Tell him what's going on."

He's silenced by that. He genuinely feels bad, realising for the first time what a major inconvenience he's put her through. Sure, he didn't ask her to get him, but if he wasn't in lock-up, the cops wouldn't have notified her and she could have spent a quiet night in with her husband.

He listens as she tries to reason with the man, guilt sagging in his gut. Her husband clearly doesn't want some drunken teenager in his home for the night. Peter doesn't blame him.

When she hangs up, he turns to her. "Miss, I'm really sorry…"

"Don't."

She starts to drive, and they sit quietly for a while.

"When's your court date?" she asks tersely.

"The 25th."

They stop at a red light and she sighs, rubbing her eyes. "I'll save the date. Make sure I can come along."

"Miss, you've done enough. You really don't have to. Besides, I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself."

"You need someone there to support you. If your mother's…working."

He bites his tongue at that final word. She means if his mother's too smashed to drag her ass to court. It's embarrassing, knowing that his teacher's the only person willing to show up for him. And she's only doing it because it's her job.

"Still," he argues. "Wouldn't it be seen as like, special interest or something?"

"I'm a guidance counsellor, Peter. It's my job to take a special interest in students like you."

"The fuck-ups."

She looks at him. "Do you really think that's what you are?"

He doesn't have to think about it. Of course that's what he is. His father's a psycho, his mum's a suicidal drunk, his friends are all bad kids and Nadya, the one good thing he had in his life, has been totally devastated ever since her Dad made her get the abortion and forbade her from talking to Peter ever again. Her Dad got in trouble after beating Peter up, so she lives with her aunt and uncle now. Peter sees her around every now and then at school, but she won't even look at him. He destroyed her life, and now he's got no one. He's a loser. With a life like his, how could he possibly be anything else?

"Miss, I know you're an optimist and all that but I know myself pretty well," he says, the alcohol getting to him. "There's no future for me. I'm a fucking waste of space. A lost cause. Everything I touch turns to shit."

"Damn it, Peter…" she sighs. "There can be a future for you. If you want it. For God's sake, you're the smartest student I've ever taught. You could do anything."

"Please, Miss, save me the 'you're wasting all your potential' speech. I know it by heart already."

"Peter, please listen to me. You've only just turned 17, and you're already on your third arrest. You've almost been expelled from school a couple of times. And the way you get into fighting and gambling and crime, and these people you surround yourself with…" She sighs and runs a hand over her face. "The truth is, Peter, if you keep going the way you're going, you'll be dead by the time you're 30. I grew up with guys like you, I've seen it happen. Visit any jail or high-crime neighbourhood in the country and you'll see very quickly that there are no old gang members, no old drug dealers. That road is a dead end. I'm trying to help you here. You can be so much better than this, Peter. Your life can be better than this, don't you get that? Even with your record, you can turn it all around if you study hard and start saving money…"

"For what? College?" he laughs. "You're dreaming, Miss. I'm not going to college, OK? I'm not gonna be a fuckin doctor or whatever."

"You could be, if you worked for it. You're more than smart enough. You understand chemistry better and most college students already. A lot of people would kill to be as smart as you. I know you don't see yourself this way, but you're extremely talented, Peter. You really could do anything you want with your life."

"The only thing I want to do with my life is get the hell out of Boston."

"Why's that?"

"I dunno," he admits, looking out the window. "I've just never felt like I belong here. And face it, I ain't got much inspiring me to stay."

"Won't your mom need you here?"

"In case you haven't noticed, Miss, my Mom doesn't give a shit about me."

"Peter, I'm sure that's not true."

"No, you don't know me," he snaps. "You don't know my life. My Mom hates me. Whenever I'm around her, no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, I just make her upset. She's so ambivalent I can't even understand it. She tells me she loves me but then she can't even look at me without starting to cry sometimes. I'm her son and she can't even fucking look at me."

He doesn't know why he tells her that. But he's always been a depressed drunk that way. After a few drinks, he's still the cool guy, but after a few more, he starts getting emotional and all his baggage just comes out of him. But Mrs Owen has always had a gift for pulling hidden emotions out of defiant people. Back when the school made him do counselling with her after Nadya's dad beat him to shit, she always managed to get him talking no matter how much he resisted it or tried to be tough. During one particularly trying session, all she had to tell the depressed sixteen-year-old was that what happened to Nadya _wasn't his fault_, and that was enough to make him break down. He hates how she can knock down his walls like that, but he's also clear-headed enough to acknowledge that she's damn good at her job.

"And your Dad? Where's he in the picture?" she asks, turning on the windshield wipers to ward off the rain.

"My Dad's dead."

She bites her lip. Rubs her hands over the steering wheel. "I don't mean to be insensitive, Peter, but I've read your file and I know that's not true," she says gently. "He lives in a hospital, right?"

Peter looks away. Locks his jaw. Watches the rain bleed down the window. Outside, a breaking of thunder runs through the sky and into the ground.

"Have you tried talking to him? Tried to make him a bigger part of your life?"

"I don't want him in my life," he snaps. "That bastard's nothing to me."

For a while neither of them says anything.

Eventually they get to her house, where her husband's put some blankets down for him on the couch. They live in a modest apartment. They're both teachers, married young. They don't have much, but Peter envies their life. They seem content, at peace, stable. He can't remember any time where he's had that.

Before Peter goes to sleep, Mrs Owen's husband brings him some water. "Bathroom's down the hall if you get sick," he tells Peter tersely. "There's nothing to steal here but don't be an asshole and take something anyway."

Peter shakes his head. "Wouldn't dream of it, sir. Thank you."

The young man nods and leaves Peter to himself, just as his wife comes back into the room, phone in hand. "I just tried to call your mother again" she says. "I still couldn't get through to her. If she doesn't call back at all, I'll just take you home in the morning when you're sober."

Peter nods. Looks at the ground. Drunk, beaten up, and with nowhere to go, he feels ashamed that he's relying on charity from his teacher.

"Do you need anything, before I go to bed?" she asks.

He shakes his head. Before he can stop them, tears begin to sting his eyes, threatening to fall.

"Peter? Are you OK?"

He nods, blinking his tears away. "Thanks for doing this, Miss," he says, his voice rough. "It's nice to know someone actually gives a shit about me."

She nods in understanding. "Anytime. But you owe me one. Show up to my classes from now on and we'll call it even, OK?"

"Alright, Miss," he says, figuring it's the least he can do.

He doesn't have the heart to tell her that he's already decided to drop out of school. He's saving everything he earns so that he can get in on some work his friends are doing for a fraud syndicate in New York. He's almost saved enough money for the trip, and as soon as he has it, he'll be gone. Fuck prom. Fuck graduation. He doesn't care. He just wants out of Boston.

Because even with his teacher's kindness and optimistic faith in him, he knows he hasn't got a damn thing worth staying for.

**Please Review! I always appreciate your feedback**

**Four more chaps to go (jeez, this has gotten long)! Coming up next is Tess…**


	5. Fistful of Sand

There's this thing her boyfriend does that Tess Amaral has always been a little paranoid about.

You see, sometimes he stays the night at her apartment. Actually, he's practically living there now. But he's not a peaceful sleeper. He tosses and turns, sometimes from restlessness, other times from nightmares or when he's caught too deep in a sweet dream. And often, with a swift kick of his leg, the covers over them are thrown, and she wakes from her dreams to find herself freezing.

And for a moment – just a moment – she thinks that he's leaving her.

And she becomes afraid.

This process is almost a routine for them now. They go to bed. He holds her. Kisses her shoulder. They fall asleep. And somewhere in the night, as they're sleeping, those covers are thrown. The cool air hits her skin. She wakes, panics inside her brain. Her hands search for him across the mattress, seeking out his touch. She finds his warm skin, feels his distinct stubble scratching her palm, and breathes a sigh of relief. He hasn't left – not tonight.

Sometimes, he'll wake at the feel of her. "What's wrong?" he'll say.

"I thought you were leaving," she'll say.

Then he'll chuckle, brush some hair from her face and smile that charming grin that is his trademark. He'll pull the blankets back up over them. Along with his embrace, they keep her warm. A kiss. "Honey, you're paranoid."

But Tess Amaral doesn't consider herself paranoid. Being Peter Bishop's girlfriend, the fear of him running away in the night is a worthwhile concern. Sure, he practically lives with her now, but she feels he's only ever been half there. He was living all over the world before they met, and there's no telling how long he'll actually stay in Boston. He's never really unpacked his stuff – it's all in a bag by their bed. One foot in, one foot out. It's like he's there, but he's not. Not really.

So now whenever they settle in bed, she waits anxiously for the inevitable moment when those covers are thrown. Because to her, Peter Bishop is a fistful of sand. She knows that no matter how hard she tries to hold onto him, he'll eventually slip out of her palm, and he'll be gone.

Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But he will leave. It's just a matter of when.

No. She's definitely not paranoid.

He'll always tell her she's wrong. That he's not going anywhere. That she's keeping him here, in this little home they've built for themselves in recent times.

But as with most things Peter thinks Tess is wrong about, she's right.

It's almost 3am now, and the night is darker than it's ever been. He's confident she's asleep, but he worries that as soon as he moves, he'll wake her. But he can't lie there beside her forever.

Keeping the covers over her for warmth, he slips out of bed. She seems to shift a little at his sudden absence, but he hopes that wherever she is in the hollows of her dreamscape, she hasn't noticed the difference. As he gets dressed, he can't help but let his eyes make paths along the curve of her spine, scanning over her body, taking in how at peace she seems. She looks like she feels safe, secure – happy even. This makes him guilty, because he knows he's about to ruin all of that.

He can't help but go over the past few months in his head, trying to figure out exactly how things went so wrong so fast. His brain goes to the obvious place first – the beginning.

_He'd just gotten back to Boston. He'd been in Amsterdam when he got the call from Walter, saying his mother was dead. Before the old man even said it was a car crash, Peter knew how she really died. At first, he didn't know what to feel. Pain, yes. Guilt, for abandoning her when he dropped out of high school. Rage, directed at Walter for burdening his mother with the job of raising their son alone. But following the funeral, the one overwhelming feeling that Peter had was one of relief. He didn't believe in heaven or hell or reincarnation or whatever, but he knew his mother wasn't suffering anymore, and that was enough to make the grief he felt weigh a little less on his back. _

_He left this city because of his mother. And now he was back here because of his mother. He never was able to escape that woman. Not really. She was in his blood. _

_After the funeral, he found himself being drawn back to the places where he grew up. He'd drive by their old apartment, the school he never graduated from. And when an old friend from his time in New York heard he was back in Boston, he was offered some work with a mob boss named Big Eddie. So, figuring a job in Boston was as good as a job anywhere else, he decided to stay home a little longer than intended. _

_Eddie had invited him to come by one of the bars where his men often met up, so they could discuss business. Peter had gone, but was told when he got there Eddie would be late. Hot inside the bar, he decided to check the place out and ended up on the roof. In the quiet moment, he took in the scenery and sighed to himself. It felt strange to be back here, after being gone for so long. He remembered the people here – his mother, his friends from school, the guys he worked with. It seemed like the same old town, like nothing had really changed. Like he had never even left, almost. _

_It was late, and the rest of city was safe in bed. He'd always loved the night – it made him feel like he was seeing a part of the world that most people slept through, when the streets fell quiet except for the club music that pulsed on the wind like a panicked heartbeat. A dog howled in the night. Sirens echoed in the alleys. Cars scurried home and high-heeled shoes tapped the bitumen as drunken disappointed girls wandered home alone. _

_He sat on the roof's brick wall and swung legs over the edge. He wasn't alone up there. A couple of employees on break were out for a smoke, a handsy couple flirted in a corner. He pulled his last Winfield out of his pocket and then his lighter. Tried to light the fucking thing. Tried again. Checked the fuel. Out. _

_He looked around and called to a girl near him. "Hey, you got a light, babe?"_

_Turning her head, she smirked. Half amused, half insulted. "My name's not 'Babe'."_

"_You haven't given me anything else to call you yet," he said, flashing her a charming smile._

_Rolling her eyes, she kept her mouth shut and handed him a lighter._

_He shook his head. "You gotta light it."_

"_Why?"_

"_Bad luck to light someone else's lighter. Didn't anybody ever tell you that?"_

_She cocked her head in a 'no'. "I don't even smoke," she explained, taking a step closer. He leaned in to her, and she lit his cigarette. The orange light briefly revealed her face to him in a flash of warmth before it was lost to dark metallic shades again. _

"_Cheers," he thanked her, taking a drag. "So you don't smoke. Why the lighter?"_

"_My brother gave it to me. For luck." She bit her lip a little, as if she said something a little too personal and wanted to take it back. Then she brushed it off, gesturing to his cigarette. "You really should quit those things, you know."_

_After all the dangerous shit he was into, the thought of dying of cancer made him laugh. "Honey, if I live long enough for cigarettes to kill me, I'll be a lucky man."_

"_You're one of Eddie's boy's, aren't you?" she asked knowingly. "The new guy, right? The one who just came in from Amsterdam? Peter something?"_

_He nodded, not sure how much he should tell her. "What do you do here?" he asked. _

"_I manage the bar," she said simply. "That's all."_

_He nodded again. She probably didn't get into too much of Eddie's work then. If that guy was smart, he'd have someone with a clean record owning and managing the bar, so they could funnel money through the place without leaving a suspicious paper trail. Eddie was probably paying her tens of thousands just to let them use her bar and for her to keep her mouth shut about anything she saw. The less this girl new about what went on in her bar, the better. Then if they ever got caught, she could throw up her hands and say she never knew about any of it. _

"_So what brought you back here, Peter?"_

_He gave her a wry smile. "That's unfair," he said, dodging the question. "You know my name and I don't know yours."_

"_You're shameless," she teased, chuckling at his attempts at flirtation. "So? What did bring you back?"_

_He looked out over the city's skyline. There was a hint of early morning on the horizon. He wanted to think up a lie, or an evasive half-truth, but he knew she'd just find out from someone else anyway. "My mom died," he admitted. "Had to come back for the funeral. Then I figured I may as well stay and make some money before I move on. That's all."_

"_Shit," she muttered. _

_He turned to her. "You sound surprised."_

"_You just seem like you're taking it really well. If my mom died, I think I'd die."_

_He smiled a little. "You don't die," he said. "You just get really angry. And then sad. And then you remember something nice she did for you, or something funny that happened with her, and you start getting better, I guess." He took another drag, tapping his cigarette on the edge of the bricks to rid it of its excess ash. "Besides, it was sort of expected. Not a shock or anything."_

"_Was she sick?"_

"_No. She just really wanted to die for a long time."_

_Again, he wasn't sure why he told her that. But she seemed honestly sympathetic. "I'm sorry. That must have been horrible."_

_He shrugged. "Maybe it's for the best. It's what she wanted. In a way I'm just glad she's not miserable anymore." He chuckled sadly, taking another drag. _

_The door opened and a girl in a mini skirt and bar uniform t-shirt called to them. "Hey, Tess, we need you downstairs."_

"_OK," the girl in front of him said._

_He smirked. "Looks like I finally got your name."_

_She rolled her eyes, but couldn't help but smile. "Listen, I gotta go. But good luck with Eddie. Come downstairs for a drink after – they're on me tonight."_

"_Thanks, Tess."_

_She stepped away and headed for the stairs, but as she got to the door, she turned back. "Peter?"_

"_Yeah?"_

_She gave him a knowing look. It was hard not to notice that she had kind eyes. Kind, but firm. Serious. "The worst part's over," she told him. "It does get better, after this."_

_He nodded. "I know." He gestured to his cigarette. "Cheers for the light."_

_She just nodded in acknowledgement. Then she was gone. _

_He had his meeting with Eddie that night, and they discussed plans for different jobs Peter would be getting into. It didn't seem too bad. Having friends in this town had already proven to be a definite bonus. Most of it was fraud stuff, scams and extortion, like cheating lonely rich housewives out of their life savings by convincing them to put it all into bogus investments. This was boring stuff for Peter, simply because it wasn't challenging. He was too good at it. After all, he had been using his natural charm and good looks to manipulate the opposite sex since he was a teenager. But what he hadn't done as a teen was use that skill to make him rich, and he was certainly making up for that now._

_After talking to Eddie, he went downstairs for a drink and met up with Akim, a friend from the old days who worked for Eddie as well. After catching up, Peter turned his eyes to Tess behind the bar and nudged his friend. "Tell me about her," he said._

"_You don't want that one," Akim warned him. "She's bad news."_

"_Why? Too easy?"_

_Akim shook his head. "Bad ex."_

"_How bad?"_

"_He's Eddie's nephew Michael. Total asshole. Crazy temper. Anyway, they got married when they were like 17 or some shit like that. It all goes well until he starts beating the shit out of her. She's tough as nails, though, that girl. Smart enough to leave the son of a bitch and all, but he's still really possessive. They're separated, but not officially divorced yet, so he thinks he still owns her or something. Any guy goes near her now and Michael goes after him or takes it out on her. She doesn't deserve it."_

"_Does anyone?" Peter scoffed._

"_She's been good to us, keeping a clean name on this bar and everything. We'd teach the scumbag a lesson if our boss didn't think the sun shines out of his ass." Akim sipped his beer, licking his lips to savour the taste of it. "Point is, man," he said, "she's a nice girl and all, but you want to avoid that situation altogether. You can have any girl in this place. Just pick someone else."_

_But as usual, Peter didn't do as he was told. _

Tess shifts in bed and he freezes. It takes him a moment, but he realises she's still asleep and keeps preparing to leave. Guilt is a sickening punch in his gut now. He knows he should have never started something up with her. She'd had enough to deal with before he came along, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that every girl he's ever been with has suffered in some way, because of him. He can't take the fact that once he leaves he's going be remembered as yet another asshole who hurt her, just like her ex-husband and every other asshole before him.

And it's a shame. He really does like her.

What's worse is that he finally thought he was growing up for once. Tess was the only girl since Nadya he'd ever been serious with, ever really stepped up for. He'd been so determined not to hurt her like all those other girls he took for granted. She made him want to change. But he knows know that he's too far gone, too much of a lost cause, to not hurt everyone he touches.

Fully dressed now, he debates what he should do next. He gingerly sits on her bed, a hand ghosting over her hair, careful not to wake her. He aches. Memories of their time begin to come back to him. Late nights at the bar, quiet mornings in bed together, sneaking around so nobody would find out about them. It scares him, how quickly he lost himself in her. What scares him more is how stupid he's been, that he managed to screw it all up so spectacularly quickly.

He never meant to treat her so badly.

But as they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

He dares to let himself press a feather-light kiss to her hair. He closes his eyes. Lingers there a moment.

"I'm sorry, Tess," he whispers. "I tried."

And it's true. He tried to be a better man. Tried to step up for her. But he was caught too deep in his old ways, with the same bad people. His best effort just weren't good enough. Not nearly good enough.

Still stroking her hair, he thought back over how it all went wrong, and how he'd realised his need to leave Boston earlier that night.

_Peter had charged the shop where Akim ran his computer-hacking station a few hours before, checking behind him to see that he hadn't been followed._

"_Akim, we gotta talk, man."_

"_Busy," he muttered, barely looking up from his computer._

_Peter violently slammed the laptop shut, catching his attention. _

"_Bishop, what the fuck?" Akim exclaimed. _

"_I mean it," Peter said, desperation clear in his voice. "I need your help."_

_Seeing the distressed look written all over his friend's face, Akim took pause, looking over him seriously. "Jesus, Bishop, what did you do?"_

_So Peter told him everything. Told him how he'd gambled himself too deep with Eddie. How he'd tried to scam money off other guys to pay it off, and now he was in trouble with them too. He had two separate mafias after his blood now. _

"_I fucked up, Akim," Peter told him, exasperated. "I need that money you owe me. I need it now man."_

"_It's not gonna be enough. Not even close. You're not gonna be able to weasel your way out of this one, Bishop. You've got to go."_

"_Go? Go where?"_

"_Anywhere. Just get out of Boston. Like, tonight."_

_Peter shook his head. "No," he insisted. "I've got this. I can figure something out, I can -"_

"_Did you not wear a bike helmet as a kid?" Akim was yelling now. "Listen to me! You gotta go! Sure I owe you a few grand but that's not enough to save you right now, you know that."_

"_I can get them their money. I just need more time."_

"_Peter, these guys aren't gonna wait for you. Eddie doesn't wait for anyone. And once he starts asking questions and finds out you've been fucking Michael's girl, they'll have enough reason to kill you twice."_

"_She's not Michael's girl," Peter spat. "She's not anyone's. Michael doesn't scare me. It's Eddie I've got to worry about. Besides, the guy's not gonna kill me, Akim. If money's what he's after, I can be a better friend to him alive."_

"_Bishop, are you taking this seriously? Do you know what happened to the last guy who cheated the Donnelleys?"_

_Peter swallowed then. "I've heard stories."_

"_Look, I'm not gonna lie to you coz I know you need to hear this," Akim sighed. "They broke into his house one night, raped his wife, beat him half to death and then made him pay back every cent he owed them with interest. Just to set an example. These guys don't mess around, don't give second chances. They will cut off every piece of you until they get their money. Bishop, if you give a shit about your life and that girl you're seeing, you need to get the hell out of Boston and make sure she never sees you again."_

_Peter ran a hand over his face, his throat clamped tight. He felt paralized. Powerless. So full of rage, at himself, for letting it ever get this far. _

"_You really think that could happen?" he asked. "That they'd hurt Tess?"_

_Akim chuckled sardonically. "You're so fucking naïve, Bishop," he muttered. "You got some real growing up to do. You go round working for all sorts of guys, gambling with money you don't have, taking risks, and you always think you're gonna be just fine. That you'll figure something out and it'll all be OK. Well things aren't OK anymore. You fucked up big time Bishop. So if you want to keep all your fingers – hell, if you want to stay alive – you've got to leave. You just need to distance yourself from this whole situation – from her. And do it fast."_

_The young man nodded, trying to swallow. He had no idea how it got this far. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. He had a system for his gambling. It was the house that was cheating. But you try telling them that._

_He looked up to his friend. "Will you tell people I left? So they won't come after Tess?"_

_Akim nodded. "I'll tell them you went back to Amsterdam. Don't tell me where you're actually going, I don't want to know."_

"_Good. I'll be gone by morning." He ran a hand over his face. "Listen, if Tess comes round here looking for me… Just tell her…" _

_He fell silent for a moment. What could he really say, that would make anything better? _

"_I dunno," he finally muttered under his breath. "Just tell her I'm sorry, I guess."_

"_OK."_

_Peter then broke into a slight joking smile, as if everything had been alright this whole time. "Hey, since you already owe me money, how about you give me some for the road, huh?"_

_Akim smirked and sorted through his bag, pulling out all the money that was there. "That should get you started. I know it doesn't cover what I owe you, so take this too," he said, reluctantly handing Peter a coin._

_He inspected it. Having been an avid coin collector as a child, he knew it wasn't fake. "You sure? This is worth a fair bit. I know you've been waiting to sell it."_

_Akim shrugged. "All I got to give you, man. Should cover what I owe. But who knows, maybe I'll win it back off you in a poker game someday."_

"_We'll see," Peter chuckled. He twirled the coin over his fingers. Something in the back of his mind told him not to sell it – instead, to keep it as a reminder not to wager with things he couldn't live without. He was about to lose Tess, the only person who'd ever mattered to him in years. If he was going to lose her, he had to learn not to make the same mistake twice. At the very least, he owed her that. _

_Akim shook his hand. "Good luck, man."_

"_Thanks." After thinking for a moment, Peter sighed and shook his head. "I don't know what to do, Akim," he said quietly. "What do I do? You gotta tell me."_

_Akim shrugged. "Just do what you've always done. Keep moving."_

"_But where should I go?"_

_Looking around, Akim picked up an old globe and tossed it to Peter. "Leave it to fate, my friend."_

_Peter smirked. This was an old saying, a running joke between them. When you got stuck, you had to take a chance and see where it took you. Because standing there thinking about what to do would never get you anywhere. Sometimes you just had to close your eyes, take a shot, and hope for the best._

_Peter spun the globe in his hands, closing his eyes and letting his finger fall hard against the plastic, stopping it dead._

_He opened his eyes._

_Iraq._

_He sighed, running a hand over his face. Iraq was as good a place as any._

Peter looks over Tess again, and his one overwhelming wish is that he could somehow turn back the clock and do it all over again. But he knows that nothing will ever be able to undo the damage he's done.

If he cares about Tess at all, he'll do what's best for her. If he stays, she's in just as much danger as he is. Amid all the hurt he's caused her in the past, and will cause her when he goes, he wants to leave Boston with the peace of mind that he did one good thing for her. Just one.

This is all his fault anyway. Girl's better off without him. Hell, everyone's better off without him.

Somehow he tears himself away from her. He goes through the apartment and packs the last of his things, just enough for him to manage a trip to the Middle East. Finally, he stands at the door and tucks his gun inside his jeans.

It occurs to him that he should probably leave a note. There's a post-it on the bench in the kitchen. "_I'm sorry_…" he begins to write, but after that, his mind is dark as an empty barrel.

There's nothing that can be said, really.

He scrunches up the note and tosses it in the bin. It wouldn't have made a god damn difference anyway.

"That's it, then?"

He turns, and she's standing there, arms crossed as if to secure herself, leaning against the doorframe. To his surprise, she's not furious. She's upset obviously, but not ready to kill him yet. There's a look of acceptance on her face. Like she never really expected any better from him. The thought of that feels like a kick in the teeth.

"Tess…"

"Don't bother." She takes pause then. Runs a hand through her hair. In her stillness, he sees that she's trying not to cry. "You know what's really stupid?" she laughs sadly, tears welling in her eyes. "Part of me really thought that you were different. I thought that out of all the guys in the world, you would never make me feel this bad."

He hangs his head. Total shame. That's all he feels. And he should be ashamed, because he knows exactly how much she's been hurt already, and how much better she deserves.

"It's OK," she tells him. "I knew this day would come eventually."

He somehow brings himself to look at her. "Tess, please trust me when I say that I don't want this."

"Trust you?" she scoffs. She shakes her head, fiercely defiant as she tries again to keep the tears at bay. "I don't even know you."

"Yeah you do, Tess," he tells her, his voice low but honest. "Probably better than anyone."

He reaches out to touch her. Big mistake. She pulls back almost violently, wincing in sheer pain. "Don't."

She's never been loved by a hand that's touched her. Not really. Peter may not have abused her like other guys have, but his touch is painful now. Because all those kisses, all those times he held her close and told he he'd always be there – they were all lies.

Then she looks him dead in the eye. Fierce. "What was I to you?" she asks sharply. "Honestly. Just a girl to fuck until you moved to the next city?"

He wants to wince at the harshness of her words. They bite.

"Tell me," she snaps. She's crying now. "What was I to you?"

He swallows. Looks her in the eye. "You were all I had," he chokes.

"The truth, Peter."

"That is the truth."

"Then tell me why you're doing this."

He exhales. "You know why. I fucked up, Tess."

"Shocking."

Her words hurt, but he lets her take swings at him. Let's her get it out. Because she told him a thousand times to slow down, not to take so many risks or to at least think before he acted. But he didn't listen.

"I'm sorry," he tells her.

"For what?" she scoffs. "Sorry for leaving or sorry I woke up to see it? God, you're such a fucking coward, sneaking out in the middle of the night."

"I know. And I'm sorry for everything." Cautiously, he takes a step closer. This time, she doesn't flinch, but she does let her arms wrap around herself defensively in some attempt at self-comfort. "Please Tess," he whispers, his voice like gravel. "I know you don't believe me, but this is harder than you think. I'm only doing it to keep us safe. I'm doing it because…"

"What?" she presses when he doesn't answer. "You owe me an explanation. You owe me that much."

He swallows. Sighs. "I'm doing it because…because I love you."

There. He said it.

The only time he's ever said those words to a woman and meant it.

But the look in her eyes when he utters those words? Sheer pain.

"Don't be cruel," she whispers, tears in her eyes. "I asked you not to lie to me."

Now _that_ hurt.

Running a hand over his face, he hangs his head, lost for words. There's nothing he can do, nothing he can say, that will possibly make this any easier for either of them.

She shakes her head a little and looks away from him, running a hand over her face. "If you're leaving, then you should just leave now," she tells him. "Just go."

The finality in her words shakes him. He knows he has to leave eventually, but now that he's in that moment, he can't move his feet.

"GO!" she cries.

It doesn't take long. She breaks, and she's sobbing.

He can't stand seeing her cry. "Tess…" he tries, reaching out to her.

"Don't touch me!" she screams, jerking away from him. She hits him. He lets her. Again and again, she pounds her fists against his chest as she cries her heart out. He hears the pain in her voice and his own heart breaks, knowing he did this to her.

He grabs her flailing arms. "Tessa, stop."

"I hate you," she sobs. "You're just like my fucking father."

"Tess…"

"Go!" she cries, pushing him away a final time. He staggers, overwhelmed by the force of her. "Just leave. Don't come back here, ever."

"Tessa, listen to me…"

"Please," she sobs.

"I never meant for this to happen," he tries to explain. "It's my fault, I know, but you have to believe me when I say that this isn't what I want."

She shakes her head. Wipes her tears. She's stiffening herself up again now, as if ashamed of her outburst and trying to regain some control of her boundless fury. "Just tell my why. Who's after you?"

"Tess, you know I can't tell you. The less you know, the safer you'll be."

"Then I haven't got another thing to say to you," she mutters, turning her face away. She can't even stomach the sight of him. "Go," she says again, more certain this time.

"Tess…" he pleads, stepping toe to toe with her. He rests his forehead against hers. Wipes the tears from her cheeks. He's not sure why she lets him, but she does. "Tessa, I'm so sorry."

She shakes her head against him, clenching her eyes shut in pain and stepping out of his touch. "If you mean what you said…" she says softly. "If you meant what you said about loving me…Then go. Please. Just leave me alone and never, ever come back here."

It hurts him, but he knows that's the only good thing he can do for her right now. The merciful thing.

So, apology in his eyes, he turns his back on her, once again walking away from the city which is the closest thing he's ever had to a home, hoping to find redemption on yet another clean slate, horrifically ashamed of the kind of man he is, and worse, terrified of the man he is becoming.

**Please review! I only got 2 last chap and it was really sad : (**

**Coming up next…Alt-Livia (dun dun dun!)**


	6. Marionette Strings

**Part 6: Marionette Strings**

**References: U2 songs "One" and "The Ground Beneath Her Feet"**

Olivia knows she is being watched. She can feel his gaze, feather light and warm, caressing her skin like sunlight. In her stomach, butterflies flutter. She agrees to humour her observer, adding the final touches to her make-up, smiling to herself. Putting on some strawberry lip gloss, she checks herself over in the bathroom mirror one last time, smirking and letting her eyes flick to Peter's reflection. "Didn't your mother ever tell you it's rude to stare?"

Standing against the door frame, hands in his pockets, he smiles back a little, his voice low. "Can't help it. You look stunning."

He's not just flattering her. It's true. She's dressed up for a few of their more special dates, but he's still getting used to seeing her put a real effort into her appearance. She's wearing heels tonight, skinny jeans that hug her body deliciously, a top that reveals just the right amount of cleavage and that black leather jacket she's recently become inseparable from. There's only basic make-up on her face, but it's still more than he's used to seeing. Her eyes are more striking that usual, her lips tempting, earrings framing her face. And she's actually bothered to do something with her hair. Free from the tight buns and ponytails she usually wears, it rests weightless on her shoulders in slightly curly waves, catching all the light. Every part of her, as Peter says, is stunning.

But that's always been his problem with Olivia Dunham. He never knows which part of her to look at. He loves that she doesn't even know she's beautiful, but she is. Beautiful, but real. A deceiving innocence. But look a little closer, and you will see the scars from cases gone wrong, you will feel the worn muscle and sinew she earned from years of relentless physical training. Revelling in the recent access to her body he's gained, Peter feels privileged that he has been able to seek out these sides of her that no one else can see.

But rather than accept his praise, she scoffs lightly. He expects that. One thing he learned about women as a teenager was that if you call them fat or ugly, you're an asshole, but if you complement their appearance in any way, you're liar who's only after one thing.

Olivia doesn't call him either of those things, but he can tell she still doesn't believe his words. "You're shameless," she chuckles at his attempts to charm her, packing her make-up away. She can hear Peter take a few steps from his place at the doorframe to stand behind her, placing his sturdy hands on her hips and kissing her cheek. They both look into the mirror, watching each other. They look good together - her all dressed up, him looking suave and sophisticated as always. Holding eye contact through the mirror, she reaches behind her to cup his cheek tenderly, letting her fingers graze his stubble.

He smiles at the feel of her. "You ready to go?"

A nod.

There's a certain kind of look between them now - that glance where they both want the same thing, but each is waiting for the other to initiate it.

Then, tilting his cheek towards her, she twists her head around for a kiss. He smiles against her lips, his eyes flicking back to hers as he tastes strawberries. It's not a taste he would have ever associated with her, but he likes it. "Sweet," he tells her, smirking and going in for another sample of her lip gloss.

Breaking away, she twists around in his arms completely, pushing herself up onto the counter and silently inviting him to come to her. He edges closer. Then, struck by some spark of boldness, she hooks a single finger in the collar of his shirt, and pulls him in to stand between her knees. His hands settle on her hips, his fingers skittering across her lower back as the space between their lips shrinks down to zero. They go briefly to a place ruled only by their senses, where rational thought has no rule and their bodies are rudderless. He feels steady, masculine and warm, and smells comfortingly earthy, like rain. She is soft but ardent, and tastes like strawberries and dynamite.

He smiles between kisses. He hasn't been with Olivia for very more than a few weeks, but after wanting this for so long, he can't believe he's finally with her. He has a good feeling about this thing. A good feeling in his bones.

Her hands do tender violence to his clothes, smoothing over his chest and fisting his shirt in her palms. Her nails scratch affectionately at his skin. He almost groans. "Babe, if you keep that up, we'll never make it out the door."

"Tempting…" she murmurs jokingly, but he gives her a look. Grinning, she concedes and hops down from the counter, their bodies flush together.

Seeing her smile like that, he can't help but be captivated by the way her face has lit up. Noticing that he's staring again, she chuckles nervously. "What?"

"Nothing," he breathes. "It's just really good to see you happy."

"What, I'm never happy?"

He doesn't know what to say to that. To put it simply – no. She's not often happy – not when she's at work anyway. But he worries that telling her that will ruin the carefree mood she's in. It's not often he sees this side of her, this happy Olivia, and he doesn't want to scare her away. Until recently, he didn't see much of her in a casual setting. Maybe she is actually able to enjoy herself in the 3% of her time that her work isn't devouring.

Not receiving a real answer from him, she hooks her arms around his neck again, nuzzling his nose with hers. "Well…" she breathes against his lips. "You make me happy."

When she offers him that answer, he accepts it. He's wanted her to say such things for too long, and hearing her say them now fills his heart with a sense of precious satisfaction as intense as pain.

Because all Peter Bishop has ever wanted is to make Olivia Dunham happy.

* * *

><p>Peter didn't just get them tickets. He got them tickets to the <em>mosh pit<em>.

This makes Olivia ecstatic. She never expected to enjoy herself so much during this mission, but face it, with the stress of maintaining a thousand new lies each day and being the sole human soldier from her world on this side, she deserves a night like this.

She wishes they had U2 on her side. Frank would love them.

But the thought of _him_ (or more specifically, her betrayal of him) feels like a kick in the teeth – one that leaves a bitter, metallic taste in her mouth. Acrid and sickening, like blood.

She never came to this side expecting to cheat on Frank. He was good to her – a kind, gentle soul. But somewhere along the way, it happened. In the beginning, she didn't want to. Newton was putting pressure on her, taunting her into believing that Bishop was having doubts and sex was the last card she had left to play. Sleeping with him that first night was one of the hardest things she'd ever had to do. But again, things changed. She was beginning to see what her alternate saw in Peter Bishop – he was a man haunted by his mistakes, but he'd learned from them. He'd grown up. He was trying so hard to be a good person, to repair the damage with his father, to treat women better than he has in the past and to make things right again. And it's obvious, whenever he looks at her, or calls, or brings her food to make sure she's eating, or holds her delicately in his arms at night, just how much he cares and how hard he's trying to treat her right. He often tells her that the day he met her in Iraq was the first day of her inspiring him to be a better man – that she changed his life. Probably even saved it.

No wonder _she_ had feelings for him.

Peter wraps his arms around her, distracting her for a moment, and she wonders if it's possible to have feelings for two men at the same time. Forget if it's fair, or if makes her a terrible person – is it _possible_?

Part of her – the innermost part – tells her she already knows the answer. And that in itself is unsettling.

What's more unsettling is that this man she fears she's developing genuine feelings for, she lies to on a daily basis. There's no end in sight in terms of the mission. The Secretary has merely said she has to stay here until her cover's blown or they're ready to pull her out. But with Newton gone, she's on her own now. She wonders how long she can keep this up – wonders how long she can keep spinning lies like marionette strings over Peter's head before they tangle, before she trips on them, before she makes the inevitable mistake that gets her killed and compromises the security of her world, her family, Frank.

She shudders.

But tonight she's not going to think about that. No. She's going to enjoy herself, enjoy Peter being with her. After all, she's in the arms of a gorgeous man romantic enough to buy her tickets to her favourite band. But she can't escape comparing him to Frank. Despite his trips away, Frank never fails to be just as thoughtful. He's a doctor after all – caring is in his blood. He'll send her flowers when he's out of town, or bring back coffee from countries that still have supplies of it, or make her dinner with real avocadoes when she's had a bad day without complaining about how expensive they are or how much trouble he had to go to just to get them.

Before she can help it, she's wondering about him again. Hopefully he's been sent to do humanitarian work in some global shithole and hasn't even realised she's gone. The alternative is unthinkable. She can't imagine the worry he's putting himself through, wondering where she'd suddenly disappeared to.

Again, she tries to swipe those thoughts from her head as she and Peter wait for the concert to begin. He catches the flicker of sadness in her eyes. That man never misses a thing. "You OK?" he asks.

"Yeah," she replies. "Just tired. That number stations case kind of wore me out."

He nods in understanding, knowing she killed a man on that case. She hasn't talked about it, she never wanted to. But Peter knows that she's handling it in her own way. She's probably blaming herself, even if it was only out of self-defence. He felt the same way when he killed that man on the Edina case last year. As much as he wants to be sure she's OK, he doesn't want to bring it up for fear of her biting his head off for questioning her "fine"-ness. He wants tonight to be a good night, for both of them.

"Well, I could use a drink, how about you?" he asks her.

She forces a small smile and nods. "Sure."

"What do you want?"

A shrug. "Whatever you're having."

He comes back with two bourbon-and-cokes and she inwardly breathes a sigh of relief, grateful to him for not bringing her straight shots to drink. Before coming to this side, she could barely stand the taste of alcohol. But having been forced to stay in character, she's had to drink a fair bit, and while she still can't stomach the double shots of whiskey her alternate practically sculls with breakfast, she's starting to develop a taste for alcohol as long as it's mixed with something sweet. It's even started to become a stress reliever in recent times.

Frank would be proud.

But she doesn't want to think about Frank anymore. So as the supporting act starts up, Olivia sways with Peter to the music, comforted by his touch. Twisting around for a kiss, she shifts so they stand brow to brow, nose to nose – and when she leans into his breath, just for a moment, the world weighs a little less on her shoulders.

* * *

><p>U2 are phenomenal.<p>

Peter's never been a huge fan. He remembers them being a massive trend when he was in high school, but he was always more into Nirvana and Social Distortion in those days.

But watching them now, seeing the passion and skill in their music, their heart for social justice and friendly way with the audience, Peter's starting to appreciate them. It's almost like a peek inside Olivia, like how he ordered his favourite book for her. The music she loves gives him insight. He's not sure he would have picked her as a U2 fan. Honestly, he's not sure what kind of music she'd like. She's never been one to talk about it, really. If she's into a band like U2 this much, it's probably because someone she cared about introduced her to them, like John or Charlie or her sister. Unless she's actually been a closet music junkie the whole time he's known her.

What's more interesting is that she's one to dance. That, he never really expected. But the more he learns about Olivia Dunham, the more she seems like a woman of contradictions, a walking oxymoron.

Throughout the concert, he watches her lose herself to her favourite songs – watches her body make love to the thrum of the music's beat, how her golden hair glows in the light and bounces as she moves, looks on as she lets her eyes fall closed and smile as she lets the music take her. He watches her like he's stumbled on a rare animal in the wilderness – like she couldn't be real. He doesn't want to disturb her, or touch her, for fear that he'll break this spell and he'll never catch her in that moment of surrender again. It's thrilling to witness. He wonders how many others have seen Olivia like this. He sees a woman who's able to lose herself in something beautiful, a woman who appreciates art, who can forget all the worries on her mind and just enjoy herself for one night.

He sees a woman he doesn't recognise.

But he brushes it off, because he's wanted to see her this happy for so long. They met right as John died, when she was all but destroyed. It was hard enough to recover from that, but then she lost Charlie and had to deal with all sorts of suffering in her life and work. Poor girl could never catch a break. He's never seen her joyous or free. Now the moment's here, and it's as unsettling as it is a relief. All he's ever wanted is for her to be at peace. Now she seems like she's really, truly happy – and the fact that he gets to be the change in her life that has made that happen makes him so grateful he literally aches.

The mood slows down, the rhythm of the music settling into gentler waves. The band starts to play "One".

She comes directly to him and takes his hand. Her touch is warm and smooth, the tips of her fingers tracing a light circle on his palm, and he wonders why it took them so long to get together. She pulls him close, grins, and says, "Dance with me."

Peter hates to dance, but he dances with her because she's Olivia. He holds her body close to his, just to feel her heat. They're in their own world now. 20,000 people are surging in tides around them, cheering and singing, but they're slow-dancing like they're the only ones in the room. Like the rest of the world is moving at a velocity too fast for them, and they're stuck in inertia, holding each other.

_Is it getting better  
>Or do you feel the same<br>Will it make it easier on you now  
>You got someone to blame<br>You say..._

_One love_  
><em>One life<em>  
><em>When it's one need<em>  
><em>In the night<em>  
><em>One love<em>  
><em>We get to share it<em>  
><em>Leaves you baby if you<em>  
><em>Don't care for it<em>

"You having a good time, sweetheart?" he asks her. The air is viscous with music, but he's close enough for her to hear.

Her smile is genuine. "The best," she replies. Then she laughs – she actually _laughs_. A kiss.

_Did I disappoint you  
>Or leave a bad taste in your mouth<br>You act like you never had love  
>And you want me to go without<br>Well it's..._

_Too late_  
><em>Tonight<em>  
><em>To drag the past out into the light<em>  
><em>We're one, but we're not the same<em>  
><em>We get to<em>  
><em>Carry each other<em>  
><em>Carry each other<em>

With her arms still hooked around his neck, she nuzzles his nose with hers. "Thank you for doing this Peter."

He grins. Another kiss. "Anytime, Livia," he breathes against her, brushing aside some of her hair so he can trail kisses down her neck and along her collarbone. She laughs at the feeling, the sound reverberating deliciously where their bodies touch.

_We're one  
>But we're not the same<br>Well we  
>Hurt each other<br>Then we do it again_

* * *

><p>When they ride the subway back afterwards, they're just about the only ones in the carriage for most of the trip. They laugh and discuss the concert, Olivia being determined to convert Peter into a mad U2 fan. But for him, the night has been more about her than about U2. He's seen parts of her he's never seen before. Tonight, he got to see her dance her heart out to her favourite band like there was nothing else on her mind. He even heard her sing. He'd never heard her sing before - not even to little Ella back when she and Rachael were living with her. The more he goes on these dates with Olivia, the more he realises just how much there is to get to know about her beyond the stoic, ruthlessly ambitious FBI agent veneer she rarely sets herself free from.<p>

There's a particular song from the concert that's still stuck in his head as they ride the train. Since he's new to the music, he doesn't know all the lyrics - so when the song plays inside his brain, it sounds like a radio with a scratchy frequency and static between words.

_All my life, I worshipped her  
>Her golden voice, her beauty's beat<br>How she made us feel  
>How she made me real<br>And the ground beneath her feet_

_And now I can't be sure of anything_  
><em>Black is white, and cold is heat<em>  
><em>For what I worshipped stole my love away<em>  
><em>It was the ground beneath her feet<em>

Peter presses a kiss into Olivia's hair as they make the journey home, glad to have been able to share this night together without Broyles interrupting them with the news of some apocalyptic emergency. Olivia won't admit it, but Peter can tell she's exhausted. Between the late concert, the drinking and the conclusion of a heavy case, it makes sense. She yawns adorably, almost childlike, balling her hand in a fist over her mouth. Peter laughs at this, and she narrows her eyes at him. "What?"

"You're cute," he chuckles, brushing a thumb over her freckles. He doesn't notice them often, but he finds them so out of place on her cheeks – like they're a trace of her childhood that she never grew out of. They make him wonder what she looked like as a little girl. He can imagine her at five or six, when she was happy and her father was alive, with those freckles and a cheeky grin and pigtails or something like that. It's so out of character it's almost laughable. But despite that, he wishes it's true, simply because it would be nice to know that Olivia Dunham had an innocent and carefree life once, even if those summer days in Jacksonville have been dead and cold for far too long to be resurrected.

"I'm tired," she breathes, rubbing her eyes.

Smiling gently, he pats the shoulder of his jacket with a tap, tap, tap. "Sleep on me. I'll wake you before we get there."

She moans a thank you - long and slow and easy – shifting in their seat to lean on him. She closes her eyes and feels him kiss her forehead, his lips lingering there a moment. His warm winter jacket smells like rain.

He leans back in the chair, absorbing the feel of her and turning his head to the window so he can watch the world rush by them in bursts between tunnels. One hand comes up to toy with a strand of her hair. The other anchors her to his chest. Her hand is still in his as he holds her to him. Half asleep, she hums a laugh as he massages her fingers. He never noticed how beautiful her hands are before. The skin is flawless, warm, smooth – her fingers slender, but strong. He's seen these same hands punch out uncooperative suspects, and push him out of the way of a train, and slyly steal Red Vines from Walter's candy jar, and hold his face close when they kiss. He explores the details of her palm, kissing the inside of her wrist. She sighs.

He likes to think he's become an expert on her body by now, but the more he seeks her out, the more hidden treasures he finds in her skin. A birthmark he hadn't noticed before. A story behind a scar. A new constellation between the freckles strewn across the small of her back. He loves the mornings after they sleep together, when he's enveloped in her, and he gets to wake to that expanse and breathe it in. He never expected to be the one who wakes up first on those mornings (since Olivia has a reputation for doing paperwork or sit-ups at the crack of dawn) but for some reason that was the way it always seemed to happen. He isn't going to complain.

Holding her now, he wonders if these are the kinds of moments he will look back on as an old man – envying his youthful self and chastising him for not appreciating the moment more. It's one of those nights where he wishes he could take the city and the subway and the stars and the warmth of her skin on his skin and the sound of her singing to U2 and lock all of it tight in a bottle as a keepsake to return to in darker days to come, so he can taste the moment again and remember what it was like to be a young man - and, dare he say it, a young man in love.

He isn't sure if he loves Olivia Dunham. He's said those three words to many women over the years, hardly ever coming close to meaning them, but despite this experience he is still yet to learn their meaning, the essence of them, to know it in his heart with such conviction that he could wager on that simple declaration the world and everything in it.

But whether he's in love with her or not, he has enough perspective to know that he's blessed to have her in his life. Since he met her, she's been the only thing keeping him in one place, with his feet on the ground. He'd be lost without the weight of her on his back. He'd just float away.

The subway rumbles and screeches, yawning its way to a stop. He looks to the sleeping form against his shoulder and shakes her gently. "Livia, wake up, sweetheart. We're here."

"OK," she breathes, and buries her face in the heat of his skin one last time.

He takes her hand and helps her up, letting her lean against his arm the whole walk home. They travel through the streets in a comfortable silence. Boston looks beautiful this time of night. With no-one else around, the roads go quiet enough to walk straight down the middle of them, and the city sparkles with stars and street lights in anticipation of early morning.

He walks her to her apartment, praying that she'll invite him in. To return to Walter at the end of a night like this would be nothing short of ridiculous. But in an attempt to be gentlemanly, he leaves what happens next up to her. To his relief, she does what he is hoping for.

Leaning against her door, she reaches for him and lets her hands pray their way down his chest. "Stay," she breathes.

A nod is his only reply.

She smiles at him then, and takes his hand, pulling him inside. He follows her. He'd follow that woman to Thailand barefoot if she asked him to. He'd cross universes for her without hesitation, just as she has done for him. Once they're inside, he brings their hands up so he can kiss her knuckles, and she chuckles softly at the feel of his stubble, responding affectionately by beginning to slowly tug him to her bedroom, kissing him so fiercely and sweetly that his heart is left thundering in his chest, his belly, his bones.

**Please review! Only a couple more chaps to go!**

**Sorry for the wait on this one, I've had uni exams the last few weeks but I finished my last one this morning (yay!)**


	7. Solace

**Part 7: Solace**

Peter's lungs are shredding in his chest. He can barely breathe. It feels like his heart is pumping acid through his veins. But he keeps running anyway, ignoring the calls of disgruntled nurses telling him it isn't safe to run in a hospital. He doesn't care. Nothing about this day is right or real or sane. All he can do is keep running, keep moving, keep breathing, as he tries to make sense of the chaos.

Finally making it to the right floor, he sees her. In the waiting room. Sitting, staring at her hands.

"Astrid!" he calls to her.

At first, it is as if she didn't hear him. He slows to a jog, approaching the chair she is sitting in.

"Astrid?" His voice is softer now, breathless - his heart thundering as he takes panicked heaps of air inside his chest. "Astrid?" he pants again, touching her this time.

She draws away at the touch. Then she looks up at him. Her eyes are big and wet, shimmering under the garish fluoro lights.

She opens her mouth. But no words come.

He falls to his knees. Takes her hands in his, like a parent does for a child. "Jesus, Astrid," he breathes. "You're shaking."

"I don't know how…" She trails off for a moment, swallowing. "She was just there. She just stepped out of the tank, like she'd been hiding there this whole time."

"Astrid…"

"She just fell. I couldn't wake her up. I tried so hard, Peter. I couldn't wake her up."

"Astrid, it's OK."

"I didn't know what to do," she cries, tears hanging in her eyes, but not falling. "The medics said it was some kind of seizure, but nobody will tell me anything now."

It strikes him then that he's never seen Astrid cry before. No matter what the crisis, she has always shown true FBI agent determination, keeping her head up and asking "What can I do to help?" But not today. The sight of her missing friend crossing over and collapsing into a seizure in front of her, unable to be revived, had honestly scared her.

Astrid doesn't fall to pieces like he expects her to. It's like she's frozen, the tears building up inside her without her letting them fall. She's just numb, in total shock at what had happened. Her hands are still shaking.

He sits in the chair beside her and takes her in his arms. Cradles her like a little sister. With the familial care she's shown him and Walter every day over the past few years, that's practically what she is to him anyway. "It's OK, Astrid," he whispers into her hair. "You did everything right. It's a good thing you were in the lab when she came back. Nobody would have been able to call an ambulance for her otherwise. You were there. You did the right thing. It's OK."

She curls into him. Her fingernails scratch lightly at his shirt. He tells himself he's holding her to comfort her. He is. But he's also doing it because, despite how much he wants to believe he's handling this, he needs someone to hold, something to ground him, just as badly as she does.

Of course, he has questions for her, about Olivia. But he isn't ready to ask them, or hear the answers, and Astrid isn't ready to be pestered with things she doesn't know anything about. Not yet.

Peter gives Astrid a tissue to wipe her face and sighs. It's going to be a long night.

* * *

><p>They say there are moments in life, where a tragedy shakes you to the core, when you look around you and see that everything you thought you knew was nothing but a hologram.<p>

They also say that there are days, when you wake up in the morning, in the home you have always known, and you don't recognise anything. Not anything at all.

When those moments come, they don't come in a whirlwind of rage and chaos.

They come in the quiet. In the stillness.

It's late now, and a starless, black night has swallowed Boston whole. Olivia is still being looked over by the doctors. They won't let anyone see her until they find out exactly what was done to her on the other side. It's clear from the drugs in her body that they'd done _something_ to her, that she was nothing more than a prisoner of war to them, and that Peter's father was responsible.

The thought makes him sick to his stomach. Since going with him to the other side, Peter has had a kind of quiet curiosity towards his true father, bordering on admiration. The power he has, his posture, the impeccable tidiness of his clothing, his relentless vision and the cold rigidness of his demeanour makes it seem impossible that he and the Walter that raised Peter are anything alike. Meeting him had made Peter wonder how different his life would have turned out if his real father had raised him, imagining how much more stable his childhood would have been. Two months ago, Peter was ready to re-establish himself in his true home, with his true father, even help him build that machine. The only things that stopped him were Olivia's plea, and a kiss.

Now, he looks back on that time and feels a deep and resounding shame. He had wanted to help his father then, to recover lost ground with him. Now, he wants to open up his veins and drain any trace of that man from his blood.

Because a true father and a decent human being would not torture anyone, let alone someone so important to his own son.

They are still waiting for details from the doctors on exactly what happened to Olivia. But Peter's sure that no matter how bad her torture was, it can't be worse than the things he's imagining in his head.

Or can it?

Knowing Walternate, Peter decides that despite the boundless cruelty of his imagination, reality will always outdo it. That's just the way these things go.

He wants to scream. Scream through clenched teeth until his lungs give out, fight with balled fists until he breaks bones. But there is no voice anymore. No way to move. Just stillness. And quiet.

Yes - he wants to scream. He would if he could. But you have to be able to breathe to scream.

There's a fine line between hell and here.

The air in the waiting room is viscous with the smell of sweat and ammonia. His hands are clammy. Through the night, the doctors have barely given them updates. People yelled at broken vending machines. Loved ones cried and whispered anxiously, waiting for news on other patients. Nurses chatted in hushed tones. Phones rang. Clocks ticked. Hours passed.

Peter has sleepwalked through it all.

He feels himself sink into his chair. He wants so badly to sleep, to drift off, to let go. Maybe if he did, he'd wake at home in his bed and discover that this whole thing has been just a dream.

But it's not a dream. He knows that.

When Broyles first told him about Olivia being back, the first thing he felt was joyous relief. It was like he was thrown up in the air, inertia keeping him suspended in the shock of it. But now he's hit the next part. The freefall.

What goes up must come down.

He feels like a man sliding down the sheer surface of a cliff, snatching and clutching at rocks and tangles of vines, and coming up empty-handed.

He wishes he'd hit rock bottom. Just to be relieved from the fall. But he knows after the mistake he's made, he doesn't deserve such mercy. This mistake - this foolish belief that _she_ really was his Olivia, the fact that he'd invited her into his life, his arms, his bed – was something unfixable and unforgivable. With every kiss, every night out, every secret he told her, he had damned himself. He wasn't even sure if he wanted Olivia to forgive him.

Whether or not she does eventually forgive him, he'll never forgive himself. The greatest sin of a conman is to be conned. And now he'll never be able to look at himself the same way again. That much he knows was true.

"This is a nightmare," he mutters under his breath. "It has to be. I want to wake up."

He thinks he's saying these things to himself, until Astrid nods beside him and shifts a little closer, taking his hand delicately in her own, as words once again come up short.

He bows his head. Squeezes tight.

* * *

><p>He's jolted awake when Astrid sits by him again. "Hey," he mumbles, wiping his eyes. "Have the doctors…"<p>

"No. Not yet."

"Oh."

She runs a hand through her hair and sighs, handing him some food. "I picked this up from the cafeteria. You should eat."

Accepting the food, he gingerly tries to smile. "Sorry."

"For what?"

"You're always taking care of us Bishop boys. I should be getting you food."

"Don't worry about it," she says, starting to eat her own food.

He looks down at his meal and finds that he isn't hungry. But he's grateful for Astrid's consideration, so he forces himself to eat in calculated, deliberate bites. He tastes nothing.

"I just got off the phone with Walter," she says.

Oh. Walter. Peter had completely forgotten to check up on him. After the other Olivia escaped, the old man had become determined to keep working on the case, trying to figure out how they did it. This was the reason that Walter gave for not coming with him to meet Astrid at the hospital. But Peter knows that the real reason is that he hates hospitals, is utterly terrified of them, and that seeing Olivia in such a fragile state would surely break his heart. So Walter would wait until she was a little better to see her. Peter accepted this. Walter had come to care deeply for Olivia these past few years.

"How is he?" he asks.

"Pretty out of it. Mixed himself a nice cocktail of drugs I don't want to know about. I've got an agent looking after him."

"Thank you," he tells her sincerely. But then he sighs. "That's just how he copes, I guess."

"I wouldn't mind doing something similar," she admits sardonically. The dark tone is so unlike her. "I could probably use a drink."

"I didn't think you drank."

"I don't really. Only when the occasion calls for it."

He nods in understanding.

"You want to leave for a bit?" she asks him. "Get some air?"

This time he shakes his head. "I'm not leaving."

She shifts a little to face him. Her face is etched with concern for him, looking him over almost like a mother would. "Not even for half an hour? Just to get out, clear your head?"

"I'm staying," he insists quietly. He looks away. "I owe her that."

"Peter," she sighs. "It wasn't your fault."

"Wasn't it?" he scoffs. "I got close to her. I noticed the differences. But I couldn't tell it wasn't her."

"None of us could."

"But I should have known. I spent every day with her, I went out with her, I shared secrets with her, I…" He stops himself before he goes further. Rubbing his eyes, he tells himself to keep breathing despite the weight on his chest. In. Out. In. Out again. "It should have been me," he murmurs then, barely above a whisper. "If anyone was going to tell it wasn't her, it should have been me."

"Peter…" Astrid says. But her voice trails off, and she leaves it there. There's nothing that can be said.

They sit in silence for a moment, but it feels like a day. At the same time, it feels like a second. The torturous act of waiting messes with your head that way.

"You know what's really ridiculous?" he scoffs, his head still in his hands. His eyes try to focus on the patterns of tiles on the floor, but his vision comes up blurry. "I thought I was actually getting it right for once. I honestly thought that I had her now, and that I was treating her right and everything was good. How much of a total fucking idiot does that make me?"

She doesn't answer.

He remembers a feeling he hasn't felt in so long. Not since his teenage years. That sensation of being destined for failure – the knowledge that he'd never do a good thing, that he'd never have a good thing, without royally fucking it up. He remembers girls like Nadya and Tessa, and how he'd come to them with the best of intentions but left their lives with a trail of destruction in his wake. With Olivia, it's been no different. The best intention, the harshest failure. That feeling is so clear to him again, here, now – that feeling that launches caterwauls at him from the inside that scream "_I ruin everything I touch_".

There isn't a woman in his life he hasn't done something to destroy in some way. Not even his mother.

He really isn't good for a damn thing. Olivia had helped him gain some focus, some purpose, some reason to turn his life around – but he was an idiot for thinking he wasn't just the same old asshole under all of that. That much is clear.

But Astrid doesn't blame him. She doesn't hurl abuse or lecture him on how he should have done better. Instead she just sighs, as if unsure what to do about any of this. It's strange. Astrid always has a next step, another plan. To see her rudderless and adrift is unsettling.

"Should we call her sister?" she asks him after a while.

"No. She wouldn't want that."

"How do you know?"

"We were on a case once and she told me so - the one where we were quarantined in the building with the virus. I told her that she should call Rachael to explain what was happening and she said no, she didn't want to worry her sister."

Astrid tries to smile. "Yep. That's Olivia," she says. "But shouldn't we call anyway? Rachael's her only real family, she needs to be here."

"Olivia can decide for herself when she wakes up."

_If _she wakes up, his brain scornfully reminds him.

Astrid fidgets with restless hands, looking around the sad state of the almost empty waiting room. Pretty much everyone else is working frantically on the case. It was depressing to think that Olivia had gone through hell for them, and they were the only two who could manage to show up for her. It seemed like a betrayal of the harshest kind.

But Peter would not betray her any more. He would stay in that damn waiting room every minute until she woke up. Because he owed her that. For God's sake, at the very least, he owed her that.

Astrid sighs. "If I were in hospital like this, I'd want all my people here." She said it as if she was talking to herself, wistfully, her tone bittersweet.

"You have a big family?"

He could have sworn he saw her smile, if only briefly. "Massive. Three brothers. Four sisters. A huge clan of cousins."

"Wow," he chuckles. "You the oldest?"

"The oldest girl. I've got an older brother though. Why?"

"You just seem like the type to be looking after everyone."

"Yeah, that was pretty much me. My parents must have been insane, having so many kids. The house was crazy, all of us running around. But it was good, I guess. We were all really close."

Peter smiles, just a little. It's nice, hearing her talk about her family. There had been times when she mentioned a brother or sister, or told a story of something funny her parents did, but apart from those occasional snippets he'd never really heard much about her family life – but conversations over bodies in the lab weren't exactly an ideal time to start cracking open old albums. He'd figured she was a home-grown girl, with all her care and patience with him and Walter. He can imagine her as a teenager, running the house while her parents worked, chasing after squealing tiny humans trying to order them into submission.

"I always wished I had siblings growing up," he confesses. "I only ever had my mom. Well, the woman I thought was my mom…"

Astrid shakes her head at him. "That woman raised you – alone, without Walter. She might not have been your mother, but she'll always be your mom."

He wants to smile. Astrid always had precise insight like that. She always knows exactly what to say.

"I didn't exactly make it an easy job for her," he admits sadly. "I've got a lot of regrets in my life, but the way I always caused trouble as a teenager ranks towards the top. Broke that woman's heart, I swear. She always tried so hard but I was just too angry at the world to care about being good for her, I guess. Maybe if I tried a little harder at school, helped out around the house and didn't get into so much trouble, she'd still be here."

"Peter, you can't think that way."

"Why? It's fucking true. Just like it's true that I should have done more for Olivia."

"Peter," she sighs, laying a hand on his shoulder and leaning into his line of vision. "You didn't know."

"_Exactly_."

He clenches his teeth, trying to decide whether to cry or beat the living shit out of something.

"I'm damned both ways," he mutters. "I can use the 'I didn't know' excuse as a reason for sleeping with her, but that excuse in itself damns me. If I was really her friend, if she was more than that to me, if I really gave a shit about her, then I would have noticed she was different in a heartbeat."

"_Did_ you notice anything different about her?"

He swallows. Runs a hand over his face. "Of course I did," he says. "Our relationship wasn't what I expected. That much was obvious. But, I don't know… I guess I thought that might not be such a bad thing. She seemed so happy. I though us being together was making her that way. So I didn't say anything. I brushed away my concerns. Because it was so incredible to see Olivia happy, Astrid. It was something beautiful. And now…"

"Now…?"

"Now I know that the whole thing was a lie, that I let myself be fooled so easily, that I betrayed _my_ Olivia." He stops, rubbing his bleary eyes with the heels of his palms. Tries to swallow. Looks up to Astrid, his eyes hopeless, their blue shades lost to grey. "I'd never known a pain like this," he tells her. "Have you ever felt like you could burn the world down?"

She swallows back tears herself, but keeps her head up the whole time. "Yeah. I have." Astrid takes his hand then. This time, it is his that are shaking. "One day, Peter, she will forgive you. She will. And after that day, you can start again."

He scoffs. "Do you really think that's possible?"

"Yeah. I do."

"How can you be so sure?"

He feels her squeeze his hand with a subtle pressure, faint enough to soothe the ache inside him. "Because even after everything you've gone through as friends, you two care too much about each other to simply let go without a fight. In every case we've ever worked, you've put yourselves on the line to protect each other. I know how long you've cared about her, Peter. Olivia has always cared about you, too. She'd do anything for you. She'd follow you into hell."

Her last statement is a punch in the gut. He feels himself start to salivate, and bile claws up the back of his throat.

"I know that, Astrid," he mutters, self-loathing icing his every word. "I've led her there."

* * *

><p>The sun is just beginning to light the sky when a doctor finally comes to brief them. By this point, Broyles has managed to get here. The doctor explains that Olivia was given a lot of drugs, seemingly for the purposes of being experimented on. He reached this conclusion because the drugs they found in her system were unlike anything he'd ever seen before. Knowing these substances are either Cortexiphan or new concoctions from the other side, the agents bite their tongues.<p>

The doctor says there's no significant damage to her organs. She just needs to rest up. Sleep it all off. They'll monitor her for a couple of days to make sure the drugs don't do anything harmful to her body. The news is a welcome relief.

Broyles has gone to brief the department about Olivia's condition, leaving Peter and Astrid in the hallway, lost for words. The doctor says she's still asleep, but they can start visiting her. One in the room at a time.

"You go," Astrid says.

Peter forces his fatigued brain to think about it. His overwhelming sense is that he doesn't want to. The guilt sags in his belly, cementing his feet to where he stands. He can't possibly go in there.

But at the same time, that's all he wants. To go in there and hold her and tell her he messed up, but it's OK now, because she's safe, and he'll do better this time, he swears. He'll never hurt her again. Not ever. And they'll be happy.

God, he wishes it were that simple.

"You should go," Astrid repeats.

"Don't you want to see her first?" he asks. _Say yes_, he prays.

"I can wait." She lays a gentle hand on his arm. "It'll be OK, Peter. She's home and she's safe. We just have to be grateful for that today. Tomorrow we can worry about the rest."

He shakes his head, staring at the floor. "What do I say?" he asks. "If she wakes up, what do I say? You've got to tell me what to do Astrid."

"I can't," she tells him apologetically. "Just…let her rest for now. The explanations will come, but not today. Alright?"

"Alright," he replies.

The early morning light stings his eyes. He realises than that Astrid, like a true friend, has sat with him in that waiting room for half a day, making him eat, pestering doctors about Olivia's condition, calling to check up on Walter, listening to his guilty rants. She's the best listener he knows. Every day she does so much to help him and his father, never taking credit for any of it. And now she's making yet another sacrifice, giving up the chance to see her sick friend because she knows he needs to see her more.

If he ever had a godsend in his life, Astrid was it.

They exchange no words as he steps towards her, thanking her with a warm, brotherly hug. She accepts him tenderly, like she wishes she could take his pain away. She doesn't let go until he's ready. When he does pull away, she reassures him with a tight smile. A _you're gonna be fine_ smile.

There's nothing more to say now. He turns, dragging his heavy feet across linoleum floors until they carry him to Olivia's room, where he watches her sleep as the sun rises, rehearsing every word he'll say when she wakes. He goes through a hundred different speeches in his head, but they all seem contrived.

He doesn't know what will happen next. As he takes her in - her hair still red and bruises tainting her pale skin - he realises there's nothing he can do now but wait for her to wake up, hoping desperately in vain that his sins will not catch up to them.

**Please review! Coming up next…Olivia**


	8. Adrift Part 1

**OK, guys, I'm so sorry this took so long to get to you, I've been really busy lately. Also, there was a lot of pressure on this chapter! Everyone's been waiting for it since the beginning. I began to write and found that it got super long so I had to split the Olivia chapter into two parts. Here is the first. Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>Adrift (Part 1)<strong>

Astrid is the one who calls to tell him, and immediately he knows it's true. He doesn't question her - simply because Astrid is practically incapable of telling a lie, and she would never tell one so cruel.

He drives over and meets her in the basement like she asks him to. When he finds her, she's crying. "We can take as much time as you need," she tells him. Her voice is thick with tears. The words choke under the pressure.

He shakes his head. "I have to see it for myself, Astrid. I want to do this now."

His voice is darker than it's ever been. Lifeless. Cold, like the corridor they stand in. He barely registers the touch when Astrid takes his hand – the one with the wedding ring on it. In the low light, it glints a little. Peter turns his gaze from it. He only has eyes for the floor. There are stains in the linoleum. Faded pink. Grey.

He feels Astrid shake violently in his hand. Looking to her, he sees that she is sobbing, the sound reverberating off the concrete walls. He wonders why he isn't crying too. He should be. It seems wrong that he isn't. But he feels nothing real yet. Just shock.

Her crying has made him anxious. Like she knows something he doesn't - like despite how he already knows this is the worst day of his life, it's actually far, far worse than he realises.

"Astrid," he chokes. "You don't have to come with me. If you don't want to."

She shakes her head and scoffs, like he's said the most ridiculous thing in the world. "Of course I'm coming," she cries, and wipes her face.

Watching her makes this all the more painful. He wishes he could be as visceral and open as she is about all this, but he can't. It's not that he doesn't want to cry, necessarily. It's just been so long since he's cried that his chest is tight with the fear of it. His eyes sting and his throat is too narrow to breathe with - and he finds that despite the agony he feels, nothing escapes him. Nothing yet. Threatening to spill out of him, it rages in his chest, his brain, his bones.

He sleepwalks his way through the main doors alongside Astrid, with her hand still holding his hand. He grips it tight, but she doesn't complain. Astrid never complains.

The chill in the room reminds him of a nightmare he used to have as a boy. In it, he would be walking on the surface of a frozen lake, and a crack would appear at his feet. He'd fall through the ice. The water would devour him, its cold more overpowering than its volume. He'd swim, fight, reach for the sunlight, but he would never be able to find the hole he fell through. He'd pound his fists against the ice, and scream, and scream, his voice unheard and his petty attempts at escape ineffectual. Then he'd let go. Resign himself to his fate. And he'd simply drift away.

Then, he'd wake up.

If there were any way to describe how Peter feels in this moment, that dream would come the closest to doing it justice. Freezing cold. Shock. Terror. Helplessness. Resignation. Death.

A doctor approaches them. "Mr Bishop?"

Peter nods. No voice.

The doctor tells him what will happen next. What he needs to do. Peter agrees. What other option does he have?

"Come with me, please," says the doctor.

He directs them to a table at the back of the room. Peter's mind is in sleeper mode the whole way there. This is surely a scene from some dream, some nightmare. It doesn't feel real. He shivers at the cold but he still feels out of his body - like he's standing in the corner, watching this happen to some other poor bastard. Or like he's an actor in a play, merely rehearsing a scene, and as soon as the curtain falls, he'll be able to snap out of it and go back to his real life – his normal, happy life.

With the nature of their work in Fringe Division, he's come to imagine this day a hundred times over the years. But now that he's in it for real, it still feels like he's imagining. Because they've escaped this situation before. Surely they've got it wrong this time. Surely.

The doctor rests his hands on the table. He explains some more procedural things, but Peter digests none of it. That table has his full attention.

Beside him, Astrid is still crying. It unnerves him. He almost wishes she would leave. But that wouldn't be fair to either of them. She deserves to be a part of this, and he needs her here more than he knows.

"Just a yes or no, sir. Whenever you're ready," the doctor says.

Peter glances to Astrid, swallows, then looks back to the doctor. Nods.

This is the last thing that he wants to do. But he has to do it. Part of him will always hope it isn't true until he sees it with his own eyes. He needs to _know_.

The doctor leans, reaches over the table.

"Wait."

He stops, looking up.

"Let me," Peter pleads under his breath. "Please."

A nod.

Then it is Peter who reaches. Lets his fingers graze the thin, white sheet over the table. Clutches a corner tight in his fist.

It suddenly hits him then that they've been together for 15 years. Married for 11. Could it have really been 15 years? Already?

It felt so fast.

It can't be over. Not yet. Please God, not yet.

Finally, the tears come. He clenches his eyes shut to stop them, but fails. Breathing is painful. Letting go of the sheet for a moment to rest his face in his trembling hand, he whispers the words before he can stop himself.

"I'm scared."

These words aren't directed at anyone in particular. He can't remember the last time he said those words to anyone but Olivia. Maybe he's still saying them to her now.

But he feels Astrid wrap herself around his arm, pulling herself close, and somehow her warmth gives him the courage to get on with it.

He clutches the sheet again. Pulls it back.

Next thing he knows, he's doubled over, choking and spluttering, retching and heaving, until all he can cough up is stale air. Astrid throws her arms around him, as if to save him from drowning, her chest shuddering against his back.

No.

No.

NO.

There is nothing left in him now. A pile of vomit, viscous and acrid, steams on the floor. With a trembling hand, he grabs the edge of the table to pull himself back up. His eyes are clenched shut. To open them and see that this was indeed real would be excruciating. He stands there for a long while and doesn't move or make a sound, other than the occasional dry, hacking sob.

It can't be true. It can't.

Somehow, he forces himself to take another look, just to be sure his cruel mind isn't playing tricks on him.

Apart from the gaping hole in her forehead, Olivia looks completely normal. Like she's sleeping. Somebody has closed her eyes.

He staggers at the sight of her, and in the process, his hand grazes her too-pale skin.

She's _cold_.

Suddenly he is on his knees, screaming. Screaming through clenched teeth. Screaming until he thinks his throat will shred and his chest will crack open. His fists are crushing his skull, clutching at his hair. His jaws will not unlock, the teeth clamped together so tight that he bites the inside of his cheek, his lip, drawing blood. He doesn't recognise his own voice. There's something raw and wounded about the sounds tearing their way out of him – something animal.

Meanwhile, Astrid has fallen to her knees beside him, cradling him in her arms. He barely feels her. All he feels is the burn of his throat, the rage in his clenched fists, the hollowness of his gut and the mangled dead thing that is his heart.

_Grief_. Pure and simple and unforgiving.

The doctor stands on the other side of the table, waiting for the verbal confirmation. The official identification. The reason they're here. Peter doesn't have the will or the composure to say a word to him. Thankfully, Astrid makes it her duty to speak up. "Yes," she sobs. "That's Olivia Dunham. That's his wife."

The doctor nods solemnly. Jots something down on his notepad. He recites the words, "I'm very sorry for your loss, Mr Bishop", like he's reading from a script.

Peter doesn't hear any of this. He is still screaming.

Running a hand over his face, the doctor hesitantly pulls the sheet back up over Olivia, hoping to put the poor man out of his misery.

Peter turns away from Astrid and retches again. Nothing hits the ground but a mouthful of bloody saliva and acrid water. He tastes vomit and hospital disinfectant at the back of his throat, and blood from where he's bitten himself in shock.

He feels the future drain away from him, like a rush of blood to his toes. No more growing old together. No more imagining families. No more saving the world side by side.

Olivia is dead. He's seen it for himself now.

His legs buckle under him. He knows he's fainting and can't stop it. Just before he blacks out, he chokes on a panicked dry sob, taking a heap of air inside his chest.

Then, mercifully, darkness.

* * *

><p>Weeks later, Peter lies back on the sand, watching clouds go by overhead. The earth beneath him is cool. He smells flowers. There are bunches of them to the side of his head. It's comforting to know that he's not the only one who's been bringing them. But he knows that won't last long. Give it a few weeks, a few months if he's lucky, and everyone else will have forgotten. Everyone but him.<p>

He can't see himself ever stopping this. He'll always visit her. In the mornings on the way to work, in the night when he can't sleep. He hasn't slept a wink since she died. After having her beside him every night for fifteen years, their bed is cold and huge and empty without her in it.

Sometimes though, he manages short dozes when he lies near her here, sand for his pillow, surrounded by the flowers of mourning people have left for her. Sometimes he's able to fool himself into thinking that she's there lying next to him on top of the sand, rather than her ashes being filtered throughout the sea that laps at his feet. It's only ever a glimpse, a flashing pipe dream, but sometimes if he closes his eyes really tight, he swears he can smell her, or feel her breathing next to him.

When these dreams end, he always wakes up cold.

As he feels the sand under him now, it almost seems like he's with her. But the coolness of the air and the bleak grey of the early morning sky remind him that it isn't so. He may be lying near his wife's remains, but she isn't present beside him, skin warm, her murmurs carrying with the breeze. No. Instead, she's just dust in the water.

Dust, and ash, and rotting, seared slivers of flesh and bone that survived the fire. A dead thing.

At the thought of that, he sits up and hunches over to the side, dry heaving in the sand.

He remembers the funeral they held for her here, in this spot, where he set her alight and pushed her out to sea. Behind him now is a plaque in her honour, where people have been laying flowers, and where he has come to visit her. It feels strange, coming to a beach thinking it makes him any closer to his wife. There's nothing tangible here that is her. No grave, no body. Just dust in the ocean, shifting and rolling and swaying away from him. She is unreachable.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. They were supposed to grow old together. When he was going to inevitably lose her, it was supposed to happen peacefully at the end of a long and full life. He was supposed to be with her. He always hoped that when it would happen, she would peacefully pass away in her sleep, her hand encased gently in his - that before she closed her eyes, he would be able to hold her, and talk to her, and kiss her one last time.

But that's not the way it happened. He thinks back to when he had to identify her body, when he first saw the bullet hole in her head. He is grateful it was quick for her. That she didn't suffer.

But he can't forgive himself for the fact that his wife, his Olivia, died alone.

No one should have to die alone.

The image of her in the morgue causes him to retch again. He's lost so much weight in recent weeks. He can't keep anything down, can't sleep. Drinks himself numb. He can feel the life draining out of him, like he's gripping a fistful of sand that he can't stop from slipping through his fingers.

He can't stand the sight of himself anymore. He's avoided mirrors at all costs since she died. Because whenever he sees himself, he sees the minor details he inherited from his father, the resemblance between him and his wife's murderer. There was a time, fifteen years ago, where he would have been willing to make peace with Walternate in an attempt to heal the worlds. Now, all he wants is to cut himself open and drain the man's cursed blood from his veins.

He's done throwing up. Wiping his mouth, he crawls back to sit shoulder to shoulder with the plaque they set up for her. He wants sleep – just a little bit of peace. But nothing he can say or do here will bring him solace. His words won't bring her back. His tears won't cause her to wrap her arms around him and tell him it'll be alright, like they used to. He can't hear her voice, or taste her skin or smell her hair. He can't pretend that he was there for her when she needed him. He can't pretend he held her hand when she died.

He wonders if she saw it coming. If she was afraid.

The thought makes him cry. Of course she was afraid. But he had never wanted her to die scared. All he ever wanted in their life together was for her to be at peace.

He still can't get over the fact that he wasn't there – if not to take the bullet for her, then to be by her side when her time came, to hold her hand and tell her that he loves her and it's going to be OK and he'll be with her again soon.

Yes. He'll be with her soon.

He holds the gun in his hands. It's heavy. Surprisingly warm in his palms, it invites him. There's no hope for him here anymore. Without her, he is lost. Part of him wants to do it so he'll be with Olivia again, wherever she is. The rest of him wants to do it simply to end this wretched agony.

Suicide runs in the family after all.

It seems almost poetic to do it this way. At sunrise – Olivia's favourite time of day. He'll be near his wife when he does it. Die the same way. A bullet to the brain for each of them. It'll be quick. Maybe even painless. And then he'll be gone from this godforsaken place.

He's written a note and put it in his pocket for someone to find.

It merely reads: _Because I belong with her_.

He lifts the gun to his temple. Goes to pull the trigger.

But he _can't_.

The gun is shaking in his trembling hand. He closes his eyes and tries again.

And again, he can't.

Because there's a voice in the back of his head telling him that he can't give up on this world. Not yet. He must continue to fight like he promised everyone at her funeral - long after the sun has burned out, long after he has any reason to.

His Olivia would have accepted no less from him.

It's not long before he realises that his attempt is useless. He can barely hold the gun, his hands are shaking so hard. He lets it fall to the ground, bouncing a little on the sand. His head falls into his hands. He starts to cry in loud, relentless sobs that no one hears.

"Jesus Christ," he moans in his pain, his exhausted body in tremors. "I don't want to be here. I don't want to fucking be here."

He cries, but no one comes to his aid. He has no one left. Olivia was everything.

Shoulders shaking, he leans sideways, collapsing against the plaque and letting his fingers trace over the engraving of her name. _Olivia Grace Dunham_. His whole body quivers as tiny sobs shake through his body, burning him from the inside out. He wonders what their future family could have been, if he had only been there to protect her. He leans his forehead against the cold, smooth stone, pressing his lips gently against her name.

"I miss you, Livia," he sobs. "Please, sweetheart. I need you. I need you back"

But there is no answer - only a chilled wind which rustles through dying flowers and shifting waves, lifting sand to roughly graze his skin like tiny grains of glass. It burns.

* * *

><p>Afterwards, when he can manage it, he trudges aimlessly back to the home he built with his wife, and when Walter comes to him that afternoon with a proposal to break the laws of time and save Olivia's life, it almost seems too good to be true. His Olivia is dead now - but not <em>then<em>. Maybe, just maybe, he can save her. He doesn't care if the process kills him. This world is too dark a place without her in it.

So he asks Walter the only thing he can. "What would I need to do?"

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><p><strong>Please, please review! The second part of the Olivia chapter will get to you in a few days.<strong>

**Also, as you know this story is a companion piece to Heartbreak Warfare, a oneshot I wrote on the men who impacted Olivia's life. Since I've really enjoyed writing Shelter, I'm thinking of having another go with Olivia, expanding her stories with men and turning it into a multi-chap like this rather than just a oneshot. New characters, more detail, different stories to Heartbreak Warfare. What do you guys think? If I did a full story like this on the men in Olivia's life, would you read it? Let me know. **


	9. Adrift Part 2

**First of all, I am SO SORRY about how late this is! I had major writer's block with this chapter. I hope it came out half-decent.**

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><p><strong>Songs referenced in this chap: Ritornare by Ludovico Einaudi and Punch in the Heart by Josh Pyke (anyone who reads my stories probably knows that I reference Pyke's music in practically everything I write, haha)<strong>

**Ritornare: www. youtube. com/ watch? v=uaTd96qdsaI**

**Punch in the Heart: www. youtube. com/watch? v=MglTqm1mtH4**

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><p><strong>Adrift – Part 2<strong>

As he's going through the house and cleaning up, he's glad to find that the piano is still there. Though it surprises him. Obviously Walter still played in this timeline, or kept the piano as a reminder of the dead son he had tried to teach, but who had always resisted his lessons. As an adult, Peter did not play often, but he often found that on quiet nights in the lab, when he had a lot of thinking to do, the music would just pour out of him. Tonight, he plays Ludovico Einaudi's _Ritornare_, letting his fingers glide sorrowfully across the keys as he tries to express some of the mayhem in his brain.

He couldn't tell you how it happened if he tried.

He went into the machine with the intention of destroying the other world, saw the future, and then made a different choice. To save her.

But something went wrong. He was erased.

He doesn't remember much from that time. He remembers cold, and only seeing glimpses and flashes of things. He didn't feel present, or like he was rooted anywhere. Olivia told him recently that he had been appearing in her dreams and speaking to Walter in the lab, but he doesn't remember doing either of those things. He just remembers feeling lost, wandering, unable to anchor himself to anything or anyone that he recognised.

_Adrift_ would be the best way to describe it. Adrift and rudderless.

But he was able to break through. Or so he thought. Nobody remembers him here. It's his universe – that much is clear – but it's not his timeline. Like a universe within a universe, almost.

Just when they thought they were finally starting to understand this whole parallel realities thing.

At first, he was so relieved to be back. To see her standing in the doorway of his hospital room felt like coming home. But the more time he spends with her, the more he feels she's not the Olivia he knows.

He may as well be in another universe.

The complicated part is that he's not. This Olivia recognises traces of him. She's had dreams about him. She understands that he would have been important to her, had things turned out a little differently. So he has to believe that some small part of her, the innermost part, remembers him and loves him – she just doesn't know it.

He hopes to God that that's true. Otherwise he really is in the wrong place after all.

Tonight, pondering this, he goes for a drive. Tim is in the passenger seat beside him – Broyles won't let him go anywhere without an agent watching his every move. He tells his bodyguard/"friend" that he needs to drive out to get some more food and supplies for the house. This is true, but when they drive to the store, he takes the long way round.

The way past Olivia's apartment.

He doesn't know what he expects to see. It's late. She might even be in bed already, but knowing Olivia, he assumes she's probably up late obsessing like he is, pouring through files. He sees the lights on, but is too far away to see any clear figures through her windows.

He wonders if she can see the headlights of cars sweeping through the street – maybe noticing one particular car rolling by a little too slow.

He wants to stop, but thinks better of it. What would he say? Earlier that day, he had asked her about her dreams of him. He had asked her if she felt anything.

Her response had been hurtful, to say the least.

Olivia – this Olivia – doesn't want anything to do with him, and it's a bitter pill to swallow.

But what else can he do? He can't force her to remember him. Talking to her about it has been difficult at the best of times. But he knows, from what she's said about the dreams and her reactions to him, that there's a glimmer of something there. A spark. If he wants that spark to catch fire, he has to fight for her. He has to make her remember. Somehow.

But he can't bring himself to see her right now. So he turns his eyes away from her window and on down that road, hoping that Tim hasn't noticed anything next to him. The man's too busy being bored to pick it up.

They spend some time buying all the things that Peter needs, but Peter can't focus on anything. All he can think about is the predicament he's in, how he feels more and more adrift in this new place, how disappointed and frustrated he is that after all the trouble he went through to get back to the life he knew, he still isn't there. He wonders where his Olivia is. What's worse, he wonders if she even exists anymore.

Is it possible that when he erased himself, the Olivia he knew was erased along with him?

And if that's the case, would she ever resurface, as he has?

He hopes so – otherwise there is nothing in this place worth staying for.

Rubbing his eyes, he makes sure to put whiskey and aspirin in his carry-basket. His head's really starting to kill. Tim mostly stays in the background, trying to mind his own business, but Peter feels the agent's eyes on him everywhere he goes. They pay for his stuff and begin the drive home. Hating the silence, Peter turns the radio up as he makes his way through the quiet streets of Boston.

_I feel you, love, like a punch in the heart  
>coz every time you're near, I'm back to the start<br>and time keeps making a mess of me  
>I'm like a rusted old boat lost out at sea<br>_

Against his better judgement, he finds himself taking the long way home again, past Olivia's apartment. Maybe the lights will be off by now, and he will go home knowing she is safe and at peace in her bed. Maybe he won't. He doesn't really care. He just wants to be near her, even if she doesn't feel the same.

_And the wheels keep taking me back to your street  
>where I would press you against the bonnet just to feel your heat,<em>

_where I would press you against the bonnet just to keep our heat_

He can't get over how cold Olivia has been to him. Walter, he can understand, but with Olivia it just hurts. Hell, the only person who's treated him like a human being lately is Lincoln - the Clark Kent look-alike with the hipster glasses and quiet disposition. He only worked with Lincoln on one case in the past, but he remembers getting on well with him. Once William Bell was gone from her consciousness, he had told Olivia about that case, and she had told him about the Lincoln from the other side – how confident and goofy he was. It's hard to imagine this side's Lincoln that way. This one is confident in himself, but in a dark horse kind of way. You don't expect him to be bold or intelligent, but he is, and that's what makes him so intriguing to talk to.

But Peter sees the way that man looks at Olivia sometimes, and the way she looks at him. A quiet curiosity.

If this indeed isn't his Olivia, then he wishes them well. But if there's the slightest chance that she will remember him, he will fight to the death to win her back. And Lincoln sure as hell won't stand a chance against him.

_Cold wind blows hard on me  
>and I hear your ghost calling me,<br>calling from the shore front to carry me home, _

_I hear you calling from the warm shore to carry me home_

He turns into her street again. Her lights are still on, and this time he finds that he can't merely roll by her house at a snail's pace to sneak a look. Before he even realises what he's done, the car is parked and he's getting out.

"Where do you think you're going?" Tim asks.

"Olivia lives here," Peter replies. "Something just occurred to me about the case. Just hang tight a bit, I'll be back soon."

He turns from the car and begins to walk up the steps to her apartment, digging his hands into his pockets to shield them from the cold. The building doesn't look any different from the outside. For a moment, he is able to convince himself that it is a normal night, where he'll casually drop by her place with a pizza so they could pour through files together into the early hours of the morning.

Feeling a tug in his chest, he sighs and knocks on her door, knowing in the depths of his heart that this is not one of those nights. He may never have one of those nights with her again.

* * *

><p><em>It always starts with smell. It's comforting and earthy, like summer rain. There's something masculine about it, too. Something familiar she can't quite place.<em>

_Next there is the warmth, the sun on her skin. In the late afternoon, it leaves an orange glow behind every blade of grass. She hears crickets. Faint creaks of metal. _

_This place she's in now is not familiar. Sometimes it is, sometimes not. But this time around, she recognises nothing. She plants her feet firmly on the ground, clasping the chains at her side and rocking herself slightly on the swing, back and forth almost sorrowfully, in a kind of self-comfort. The empty swing next to her creaks a little in the breeze. It's old. She's willing to bet that nobody's sat on that swing in 20 years. _

"_Are you OK?"_

_She snaps her head back, only to find that the swing beside her is suddenly occupied. _

"_Peter," she breathes._

_When he hears his name, his faint smile is full of relief. "Yeah, sweetheart. It's me."_

_She can't explain what she feels when he calls her that. Part of her is confused, since she barely knows this man, and wants to make some snappy comeback or reprimand him for being such a chauvinist. The rest of her feels something else – a longing as harsh and intense as pain._

"_You don't remember this place, do you?" he asks her. A sigh. "I thought if I brought you back here, back to all the places we've been, you'd start to remember. But you don't."_

"_No."_

"_We're in Jacksonville," he explains, exhaling low and deep in frustration at yet another failure. "This is the childcare centre where Walter experimented on you. We came back here for a case last year, and when you were angry you came outside to the swings to be alone. I followed you to make sure you were alright and we sat here, like this, together. But you don't remember."_

"_No," she tells him again. _

_It's gotten cold now. Her flingers grasp the chains of her swing a little tighter at the shock of it, the breeze chilling her skin. Looking around again, she finds that the world has gone darker, the sun having suddenly disappeared. They are still on the swings, but everything around them is different. They are surrounded by tulips. White ones. _

_The sky above them is starless and thick, a rich navy colour. It stretches in every direction, dark and righteous and pure. On a night without a moon or a star, you can see almost nothing, but you can imagine anything._

"_This is a dream," she realises. _

_Taking his hand off the chain of his swing, he reaches for hers. His touch is warm._

"_You have to remember, Olivia."_

"_But I don't understand. Remember what?"_

_He looks hurt, and she immediately feels guilty for how bluntly she phrased that. But that doesn't make her confusion any less true. He stands up and takes a few heavy steps until he's standing before her, hands in his pockets. The light around him is blue, tinting the sky and the flowers. Blue like his eyes. She finds them soft, kind. There's a warmth to them – a deep-seated goodness. It's hard for her not to get caught up in it. Not to get caught up in him._

_And she knows, just by looking at him, that she can trust him._

"_You have to remember me," he says._

_She shakes her head. "You're not real."_

_He scoffs lightly. "Real is just a matter of perception." He takes a step closer. Tucks some hair behind her ear. She wants to flinch or brush his hand away, but she can't. He's so warm. _

"_I am here. And I'm the part of you that you have to hold on to."_

"_No…" she murmurs. "This isn't right. You're not real."_

"_I'm not just some man in a dream. You know that. I know you do."_

_He comes closer still, standing between her knees. Then he drops to his, so that they are almost level. She tries to shy away from him but he doesn't let her, taking her face gently in his hands and pressing his forehead to hers. Olivia finds than that she can't move away from him – instead, she leans into his touch, needing his warmth and his comfort. She can't explain why, but she feels an overwhelming sense of faith in this man. She trusts him, despite the lack of rhyme or reason. _

"_Livia…" he whispers. "I'm right here. Don't let go of me, sweetheart. Please. I need you to hold on to me."_

_She pulls back a little and brings herself to look him in the eyes, feeling an unsettling sadness shiver through her body. His skin is paler now, more transparent, like he's fading away. _

"_Peter," she whispers against him. "I don't understand. These dreams… What's happening to me?"_

"_I don't know, sweetheart."_

"_I'm scared."_

_He shakes his head at her softly, coming closer still. "Don't be."_

_She shivers as he begins to lean into her. She doesn't know why, but she lets him come, welcoming his touch. The space between them is shrinking, shrinking down to zero…_

_But just as they are about to kiss, she feels a shocking cold. Opening her eyes, she sees nothing before her. The tulips are gone. Peter is gone. There is nothing but her and the swing set, creaking in the freezing, howling wind, in the middle of a barren wasteland._

_Looking around, Olivia doesn't know where she is. She doesn't know what is going on, or where Peter has disappeared to. There are a lot of things that Olivia doesn't know._

_But there is one thing that she does know: she is completely, painfully alone here._

Olivia wakes. Someone is knocking at the door. Startled, she sits up and realises that she has fallen asleep on her couch surrounded by files, a half-empty glass of wine sitting on the coffee table. There's another rap at the door – a more abrupt one now – and she shakes herself from her daze to get up and answer it.

When she opens the door, she's thrown. "Peter."

"Hey," he says.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong." He sighs, feeling the lie leave a bad taste in his mouth. "Can I come in?"

She shrugs, letting him through. Something odd happens then. She gets a flash of something in her mind. She thinks she remembers a situation similar to this, where he had been standing at her door in an MIT t-shirt, and she was in her pyjamas, holding a toothbrush, letting him inside.

She shakes her head to clear it – it must just be a scene from one of those dreams she's been having.

"Can I help you with something?" she asks him when they get to the living room.

He shakes his head, looking around at all the files everywhere. "You still working on the case?"

"Uhh, yeah," she mutters, trying to clear some of the mess away.

He smiles a little. "You always did work yourself too hard, Livia."

That makes her look up. "Don't do that," she mutters, probably a bit too harshly. "Don't act like you know me."

"But I do. Better than most."

He watches as she closes in on herself, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. She knows where this is going. They've had that discussion before, and she doesn't want to have it again. "I don't mean to be rude, Peter, but what are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry, Olivia," he murmurs. "But the dreams you've been having…I need to know."

"I already told you I didn't feel anything."

He shakes his head. "I don't believe you."

They stare at each other for a long while, neither of them knowing how to act around each other or what to say. Finally, it's Olivia who bites the bullet. "You asked me today if we were in a park. In the dreams."

"Yes."

She shakes her head. "You were close. There are swings, but it isn't a park."

"Then where?"

"The preschool, in Jacksonville."

_Of course_, he thinks. _Back where it all began._

"What happens in the dreams?" he asks.

"Nothing, really. You're upset. You keep asking me to remember."

"And you can't."

"No," she admits. "I can't."

She sees the pain in his eyes – the same type she saw in her dream moments earlier. That way that his jaw locks and he swallows hard as he tries not to let his hopelessness get the best of him. Her heart wants to break for him, but she won't let it. After all, he is a stranger. Nothing more.

"I have dreams of you too," he says. "We're in a park, Walter's on the swings. We're lying on the grass together and there's a wedding ring on my hand and you look so beautiful. You say it's 'the perfect day'. And it is perfect, except there's something so off about it – something terribly wrong. And I wake up missing you so painfully."

Olivia just looks at him, not knowing what to say. The truth is, she feels something similar. Amid the confusion and frustration and need for answers, her overwhelming immediate feeling after waking from dreams of Peter is one of intense loneliness. Like something's been taken from her and she needs it back. But she could never tell him that.

"These dreams," he continues, "They feel like phantom pains. Like when a man loses and arm or a leg, he still feels it there, still feels the agony in it. Because it's been attached to him for so long, suddenly he can't fathom the very idea that it's not anymore. That's what it feels like now. Except I didn't lose and arm or a leg. I lost you. And I dream of you and things are like they were, and then I wake up and lose you all over again. And I see you at work and you treat me like I'm a stranger, like you're afraid of me. It hurts, Livia."

She bites her lip, looking away from him briefly before lifting her eyes again. "Look, Peter, I'm sorry, I really am. But I don't know what you want me to do about this. I can't help you."

She can see the fury boiling in him now as he shakes his head, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. And she finally realises that after all the stress of the past week, he's finally hit his breaking point - the moment when he decides he's finally had enough. It radiates from him. The hurt. The frustration. The pain.

"No," he snaps.

"No?"

"No. I won't accept that."

She's taken aback by that. "Well, you're going to have to. That's the way it is."

"No. You have to be able to do better than that. That's not good enough, Olivia. Not nearly good enough."

"What do you want me to do? You just drop into my life out of nowhere and you expect me to just believe everything you say and remember some life you never had?"

"How can you say that to me?" he bites back, raising his voice now. "I was here, I was always here! You have to remember me!"

"But I don't know you! I never knew you!"

"Then why have you been having dreams about me?"

"I don't know! I don't understand -"

"Because I was here, I was here, Olivia -"

"No, you -"

"You dragged me back from Iraq three years ago, I helped you on every case since, I-"

"That never happen -"

"I was your friend, I was there for you when John died and -"

"No one was there -"

"…and Charlie died, and every time you were hurt on a case."

"No, I was alone, you weren't -"

"I WAS THERE!"

"This is all wrong. It didn't happen like that."

"Don't say that to me! I was here, I was there for you every fucking day of those three years we were running around this world putting bandaids over bullet holes -"

"No."

"We were together. You told me you loved me."

"No, this is crazy…"

"I loved you too. I didn't say it to you, but I did, I-"

"Stop it!"

"Olivia, we -"

"Stop lying to me!"

"I'm not fucking lying to you! I loved you!"

"Don't do that, don't -"

"I WAS READY TO DIE FOR YOU!" he screams. "Jesus Christ, Olivia, don't you get that? I got into that machine thinking it was gonna kill me, to destroy the world I came from so your world could survive. And then I undid it all, knowing that the repercussions would be unimaginable - but I did it because of you! I was fucking erased from time! I did it all for you, Olivia. I did all that for you and you don't even fucking remember me? That's not good enough! I deserve better than this! You should at least remember who I was, you owe me that much! At the very least you owe me that!"

His outburst stops everything. He realises then that he's standing toe to toe with her, towering over her, his rage roaring out of him. She looks taken aback. Intimidated, even.

He had never wanted her to be afraid of him.

Wiping at his bleary eyes with the heels of his palms, he turns away from her and throws his hand into the wall. Hard. The pain is sharp and searing, but for a moment, the pain in his heart goes numb, and that's enough.

Moaning in his pain, he staggers to her couch and sits down, cradling his injured hand in the other, fighting to keep himself from breaking down. He looks to her through blurry vision. She still looks defensive, watching him from a distance. It's a miracle she hasn't pulled a gun on him yet.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, looking for recognition in her eyes. He sees something else. "I'm glimmering, aren't I?"

She nods.

He wipes at his eyes again. _Don't cry_, he scolds himself. _Don't fucking cry._

"I miss you, Livia," he breathes. He can't look at her. "When you died… I had to do it, Olivia, I had to find a way to change it all. So he wouldn't kill you."

"What are you talking about? Who killed me?" she asks cautiously. She's not so sure she wants to know.

"My fucking father," he scoffs. The tears start coming again now, and this time he doesn't try to stop them. It's a lost cause. "He killed you, Livia. Shot you in the head. And they told me to come to the hospital and identify your body and I…"

He can't go on. His voice is choked as he tries to hold back a sob. But somehow he composes himself and is able to go on.

"We were married, too, in the future. Over ten years. We were as happy as we could have been, in that world. We didn't have kids but we thought about it a lot, though you still thought it'd be too -"

"Stop this," Olivia snapped, taking another step away from him. "This is insane. I've tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, but it's gone too far. You need to go."

"Livia -"

"_Please_."

He stands and approaches her, but she backs away again. "Don't, please," he begs softly. "I'm sorry I got upset before. I won't hurt you, I promise."

She wraps her arms around herself defensively. "I've told you a hundred times I don't remember anything. I don't know what you want from me. I can't help you."

"I know you remember something. You have to."

She shakes her head.

"_Please_, Livia."

"I can't. I don't know how."

He steps a little closer. "When I disappeared, I… I never thought I'd see you again and now…you feel so real and so _alive_, but…but you don't even know me. Do you have any idea how much that hurts? This feels like a nightmare. I want to wake up and I can't."

He wants to badly to touch her, to have her hold him close and make everything alright, but those days with her are long gone. That much is clear.

"I don't know what to do here, Olivia. I'm so lost."

She knows, even then, that she will never be able to forget the way he says those words – the pain in his voice. The fear.

"Can you just tell me you love me? I really need to hear it."

She shakes her head, keeping her distance. A tiny part of her, the innermost part, wants to tell him exactly that. She doesn't understand why. But she stifles it down anyway.

"I can't," she replies tersely. "Because I don't. You're a stranger to me. And you need to leave me alone."

"I know I sound crazy, but I'm not," he swears to her, tears springing to his eyes again. "I'm not crazy."

He feels like a little boy again. He's reminded of a time when he was young, begging his adoptive mother for answers, swearing that things were a certain way when everyone was telling him it wasn't so. Now he's pained with the same feeling that had driven him to desperate measures as a boy, causing him to throw a block of cement through the ice of Reiden Lake, preferring to risk drowning than to never find his way home. He hasn't felt this helpless and this alone since that age, and the sensation is as humbling and pure and nostalgic as it is mercilessly crushing.

"Livia, you have to believe me."

"I do believe you," she tells him. "But I also believe that the Olivia you're talking about isn't me."

"You can't tell me you never thought there was something missing in your life. Something that should have been there, but never was."

He sees something in her eyes then. Some flicker of recognition. Olivia Dunham has always been on her own, in any timeline, but he hopes that with the imprint he had left on her life, some part of her would have noticed that he was gone. A part that missed him, and longed for him – even longed for the _idea_ of him – before they ever met, here, now.

With this glimmer of hope, he comes a little closer. He reaches for her. Surprisingly, she lets him. He doesn't understand why, and neither does she, but _she lets him_, and that has to count for something.

Tentatively, he lifts his hand to tuck some hair behind her ear. She shivers then, as he lets his thumb graze her cheek. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I made you cry."

She shakes her head, only realising then that he has brushed away a single tear that has tracked its way down her cheek. "You made me…" she starts to say, but her voice trails off, and she leaves it like that.

She doesn't _understand_. How can she cry for this man, when she didn't even know him? How can she feel this familiar warmth at his touch, this longing unlike anything else she's ever known?

"I will always love you, Livia," he murmurs sincerely. "But the fact is, you're just meeting me. I can't handle that. I don't know how."

She closes her eyes, letting tears fall as she does so, hoping that when she reopens them she will be woken from the bizarreness of this dream. Because even with the insanity of what they see at work every day, this is pushing it. The whole idea of some man showing up, knowing so much about her life, claiming that they are in love and will get married in the future? Married, at least, until his father kills her? No. This cannot possible be true.

But at the same time, she wills him to be right so badly. Because she's getting that same feeling she first got when she saw his face in the lightning at the power station – that he doesn't want to hurt her and he needs her help. Because that hole in her life he's talking about has been there for so long and has felt so real, that when she sees Peter's face, when she feels his skin and hears the gentle murmur of his voice, she feels a peace she has never before known. Only heard of, and seen, and read about. But never _felt_.

"You can't forget who I am, Olivia," he tells her, his voice rough with the strain of it all. "You can't forget where I'm from."

He leans a little closer, their foreheads almost touching. "Peter…" she whispers, trying to squirm away from him. This is going too far. Way too far.

He shakes his head to cut her off, holding her close. "You can't forget this."

He's leaning in. And he realises she's actually going to let him do it. She's going to let him kiss her.

Except that, at the last minute, she doesn't.

She does exactly what Peter would have expected her to do to a total stranger making advances on her.

She hits him.

It isn't hard like he would have thought – he'd seen her try to pull back a split second before she made contact – but the slap is still as sharp and harsh on his skin as if she had sliced him with a razorblade. Because the betrayal in it hurts. The fear.

He staggers backward, lifting his hand to the pinkened skin of his cheek, hardly believing what had just happened. He's been hit by women before – more than a few – but it has never hurt like this. Every other time he had known 100% he deserved it, because he had treated those women far below the standard of respect that they had been worth. This time, he knows what he just did was crossing a line, his actions characteristically stupid of him, but he can't help but feel like he is the victim. A misunderstood victim of terrible circumstances.

He's too humiliated to raise his eyes to hers, but if he had the guts, he would have seen that she is in just as much shock as he is. He would have seen how torn she is between beating him to a pulp and apologising with all her heart. Because the slap had been a reflex action, really - something that felt rightly defensive in the moment, but that she had tried to stop halfway through.

Now, as she watches him catch his breath, she doesn't see a threat. All she sees is a lost boy, a tortured soul, a broken man who needs her help. Even so, she can't decide whether this man was a friend or an enemy, whether he really does know her or if he's just a well-researched liar. So after all, she can only settle on the safest assumption.

"Get out," she says. Her voice wavers.

She doesn't have to tell him twice.

It is only when she closes the door behind him that she finds that her hands are shaking, and lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding in.

* * *

><p>"Peter, wake up."<p>

"Uumph…"

"Peter, wake up. Wake up."

"Livia…?" he mumbles, rubbing his face.

After turning on the lamp by his bed, he's astonished by what he sees. Olivia, in his room, kneeling by his bed, out of breath. She's crying, her eyes big and wet and shimmering.

"Livia, what…?"

She shakes her head, tears tracking down her face before she can stop them. "I'm sorry," she cries. "I'm so sorry."

"Livia, what's wrong? Did something happen? Are you OK?"

"Don't do it. Don't go into the machine tomorrow. Please, don't do it, Peter."

Despite his sleepwalking brain, he's starting to grasp what she's talking about. It's been a week since their fight at her house – a week of avoidance and awkward niceties at the office. In that week, Peter had come to accept that she wasn't his Olivia and had made plans to get home. These plans had involved stepping back into the machine, hoping to find the right timeline in the right world before it was too late.

And now Olivia, who'd been doing all she could to stay away from him in that time, is by his bed, begging him not to go.

"Hold on a sec…" he groans, running a hand over his face and sitting up in bed. It suddenly strikes him that he's only in his boxers – probably not appropriate to wear in front of someone who considers him a stranger – but she doesn't seem to care. Then he realises that she's _in his room_. "How did you even get in here?"

She wipes her face. "I remembered where you hide your spare key."

It's such a simple statement. Under normal circumstances, it'd mean nothing. But those words blow Peter's mind wide open.

She remembers.

"You…" he begins to say, but his voice quits on him. He looks her over, taking in her bed clothes and messy hair. She must have just woken up and come straight over to his house. He sees the desperation in her eyes, the guilt, the vulnerability. But more than anything, he sees the familiarity in her – that spark that is uniquely hers.

He looks into her eyes and he knows - he _knows_ - that this is her.

_His_ Olivia.

"Oh my God," he breathes, reaching for her and pulling her onto the bed to sit with him. Then he's laughing. Laughing through his tears, with shaking hands. He's brushing hair from her face, wiping tears from her cheeks, grinning as he does so. "Livia… Oh my God…"

She nods tearfully, smiling back. He pulls her close, unthreatening, and she comes willingly, wrapping her arms around him tight. He holds her just as fiercely. He has her back now, and he's convinced he'll never let her go after this. "Livia," he whispers again, kissing her hair. "You remember me."

She pulls back and wipes her face, looking him in the eye. Her hand comes up to palm his cheek in a display of tenderness she's never shown him in all the time he's been back. It's such a welcome relief that his heart warms with a joy that radiates down to his bones.

"I don't remember everything," she admits. "There are gaps, but it's coming back. I can't explain it. I don't know how it happened. I was dreaming of you again and I woke up and I just _knew_."

"Knew what?"

She smiles a little through her tears – that endearing smile that he has always known to be reserved just for him. "That you belong with me."

He can't help but smile back, taking her face in his hands and kissing her with all he has. Because they've never needed words anyway. Not really. But when they break apart for air, he still feels the overwhelming need to tell her what he never had the guts to tell her back in the days when he could afford to take her for granted.

"I love you, Livia. I love you."

"I know," she weeps. "I love you too. Please, Peter, you can't go back into the machine. I promise I'll remember everything soon, please…"

"What are you talking about?" he laughs, clutching her to him again. He feels her fingernails scratch his skin as she clings to him, and is comforted by the idea that she needs him right now just as much as he needs her. "My home's right here, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere. I knew you were in there somewhere, Olivia."

She trembles in his arms, and he feels wetness on his shoulder where her face is taking comfort in the heat of his skin. Brushing some hair from her forehead, he plants a tender kiss on her skin there. "Shhh, sweetheart. Don't cry. It's OK."

"I'm so sorry," she sobs.

"What are you sorry for?"

"I thought the worst of you. You kept trying to tell me who you were, but I thought you were lying to me. I should have believed you. God, I should have recognised that it was really you, I -"

"Hey, that's enough," he tells her, letting his hand rest soothingly on the back of her head, holding her to him. "It wasn't your fault. You didn't know."

He feels her nod against his skin. Things are beginning to slow now, their frantic grips becoming tender embraces. She shifts to sit beside him, curling into him, his arms encircling her.

"What do you remember?" he asks her, tucking some hair behind her ear.

"Lots of different things," she says. "At first it was just feelings. Vague, but definitely real. I'd feel this longing for you, and I'd miss you and I'd feel all this worry and affection and…love. I just had to be near you. I tried to go back to sleep but all these memories started coming back to me. Just little things. Like you playing piano in the lab, or showing me card tricks in a bar, or chasing a suspect or holding me in bed on a Sunday morning. And I knew that you really weren't lying. You were telling the truth the whole time and I didn't believe you…"

"It doesn't matter. You're here now. I don't understand how it happened, but I don't care. You're here and I'm here and that's all that matters. I'm sure the other memories will come with time. There's no rush. And maybe this means Walter and the others can start remembering me too. I mean if Walter's been hallucinating about me that has to count for something."

"I hope so." She sighs, sitting up a little and reaching for the phone. "We need to call him. Broyles too."

"Not yet," he pleads, pulling her arm back. "I just want to take you in."

She smirks a little. "You getting sentimental on me, Bishop?"

"Can you blame me? You had me scared for a while there. I almost thought I was never gonna get you back."

"We still have to tell them."

"I know. In the morning. Just…stay with me, for now. Please."

She nods, settling in bed with him. "OK," she breathes between gentle kisses. "OK."

He pulls back a little. "Stop," he whispers. "I just want to look at you."

Puzzled, but willing to go along with it for him, she shifts to lie back on the bed beside him as he lies on his side, propping himself up on an elbow. She's not used to him taking his time to examine every detail of her, but she lets him, simple because she knows he's doing it to prove to himself that she's truly real, and she needs the same assurance just as badly. He touches her with his eyes first, then his fingers. He plays with pieces of her hair, traces light circles on her collarbone, drawing constellations between the freckles on her skin. His nose brushes hers as his lips start to follow suit, rediscovering the path his fingertips have taken. "God, you're beautiful," he whispers against her neck, feeling the shudder of her laugh vibrate through his body.

His hand prays its way down her stomach and comes to rest on her hip, where it begins to turn in a circle. Over. And over. And over.

She chuckles in a quiet breath, glancing between them at his turning hand. "I've told you I don't like it when you do that."

Those words fill him with indescribable feelings. They are a further glimmer of proof of his existence in this world, another detail of their time together. Proof that she _remembers_. She's starting to remember everything now. The little things, like she said.

His hands begin to shake. This time it's his turn to cry. Because after the hell he's gone through these past few weeks, he can't believe he finally had his Olivia back in his arms again. His head drops to her shoulder and she holds him there a moment, her palms warm and comforting on his back and neck as she whispers in his ear, "It's OK. I'm here now. It's OK…"

Pulling back, he brings his thumb to trace her freckles as he looks down on her amorously, taking her in. He is holding her with so much reverence she feels like a treasure in his arms. "I can't believe this is happening," he murmurs, choking up a little. "You were gone for so long I almost thought I'd never get you back. I wasn't sure I'd ever get to hold you like this again. I can't believe you're real."

"I'm real," she promises, running her hands over him, letting her touch prove it to be true.

He kisses a path along her shoulder again, adoring every inch of skin. "You're mine," he whispers, his breath warming her skin. "My Olivia…You're really mine."

"Always," she promises, pulling him back up to her for a kiss.

"I thought," he breathes, "that you were gone forever. That I'd never find you again, and that you'd never come back to me."

She smiles a little, her thumb grazing his stubble. "Not a chance," she swore to him. "You belong with me."

Truer words were never spoken. "I'm really home," he says aloud, just to let it sink in.

"Yes," she repeats. "You're home."

Despite all the difficulty of their situation and the uncertainty of what lies ahead, she can see in his eyes that that is all he needs to know. She clasps his neck, and he leans into her breath, and just for a moment, the darkness is easy.

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><p><strong>Please, please review!<strong>

**Just an epilogue to go and then this story is all done!**

**I've already started working on the Olivia version of this story. I'm really excited about writing it (to be honest it stole a lot of my inspiration for this chapter), but realistically it won't get to you until February because I'm going overseas soon. Hope that's OK? It'll be better if I don't rush it anyway.**


	10. Life Flies By In Seconds

**Hey guys. Again, so sorry it took so long for this to get to you! In the lead-up to Christmas I've been working non-stop. **

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><p><strong>Epilogue: Life Flies By In Seconds<strong>

**Reference: this chapter was inspired by the song Gracie by Ben Folds, song lyrics from Three Little Birds**

There are many women who have changed Peter Bishop's life over the years. Some of them were carers trying to do right by him – the kind of women who gave him a place to stay or lent him money knowing he'd never be able to repay it - and who he'd ultimately always let down. Others were love interests that he'd hurt, who he'd come to with the best intentions but left in pieces. And then there were women like his mother, who had loved him but in the end had collapsed under the pressure when he needed them most, damaging him in a way that took him decades to understand or forgive. In their own way, each of these women taught him something, whether it was about respect or being a man, how to grow up, or how to never make the same mistake twice. They all left an impression that he would be a lesser man without.

But there are a particular few who have come into his life and completely turned it upside down, making sure that he would never be the same again.

Olivia Dunham is one of the women who ranks towards the top of that list. The other is Andrea.

Tonight, while he lies in bed with Olivia in his arms, he finds himself unable to take his mind off of _her_ – her dark hair, her soft skin, her stunning eyes. He can't sleep, his mind overrun by thoughts of being with her, holding her close and telling her he loves her. Unable to relax and get back to sleep, he kisses his wife's hair and slips out of bed, careful not to wake her, and treads softly down the corridor of their apartment to where Andrea is.

As he walks to her, a million thoughts rush through his brain at full velocity. It feels so surreal – this moment, right here – the idea that he is walking down the hall to visit his newborn daughter, who he hadn't met until a few days ago. But despite never having met her, he always knew throughout the pregnancy that he loved her with all his heart. She and Olivia were his world now. There's nothing he wouldn't do for the two most important girls in his life.

It is an odd thing to wrap his head around – having a child. A week ago, he'd never met his daughter. He didn't know her voice. He didn't even know what she looked like, or her name. Come to think of it, he didn't know a damn thing about her. He hadn't carried her for nine months like Olivia had. The only contact he'd ever had with this tiny person was a sketchy image on an ultrasound screen and the slight, sharp press of a kick against his palm. In a way, she was just a concept to him, not a real little girl with a personality and a family and a future.

But he'd done his best to form a connection with her during the pregnancy. While his wife complained about achy bones and morning sickness, he was fascinated and moved by every change in her body. When Olivia felt the baby moving and fluttering in her belly months before he would ever feel her kick, he couldn't help but be jealous, knowing that his wife would always have a bond with this baby he'd never have. But he hoped to make a bond of his own with his child. He'd lie awake at night with his wife in his arms and lay his hands on her belly, feeling the little kicks against his palms as he told his baby stories and whispered how much he loved her. But it was never the same as what Olivia felt, and he sensed that he was distant from this baby in a way that his wife wasn't.

Despite this distance, he'd always known it was a girl. It's not that he didn't want a boy – a boy would have been just as wonderful – but he just knew. Olivia didn't believe him, but he'd known from the beginning. He had a habit of nicknaming the baby "Little Olive" while his wife was pregnant, and Olivia used to tease him about how stupid he'd feel if the baby ended up being a boy. But when she was born, it was Peter's turn to tease his wife and brag about his newfound fatherly intuition.

Olivia had insisted on having a natural birth. It wasn't just because she wanted to tough it out, but homebirths were a huge part of her family. Her mother had given birth to her naturally at home. She had watched her baby sister Rachael be born at home when she was only four and considered it to be one of the most moving and bonding experiences of her life. No hospitals, no drugs, no interventions, no strangers – just the warmth, love and familiarity of their home. Olivia trusted in her body and in her own strength to be able to do this without drugs - after all, childbirth is a completely natural process the female body is designed to handle. "People give birth without drugs every day," she'd told him. Though while Peter found his wife's attitude admirable, he was uneasy about a homebirth. He wanted to be near an operating theatre in case something went wrong and she needed an emergency c-section for whatever reason. In the end they compromised and Olivia gave birth naturally in a birthing centre right across the road from Boston General.

It had been a beautiful experience – much unlike most of the stories people had told them during Olivia's pregnancy. The mood was very relaxed, with everyone there to support Olivia as she gave birth at her own pace. It was much longer than Peter had anticipated, with the first eight or so hours of it just involving going for walks, drinking tea, chilling out to calm music and timing contractions while they patiently waited for their little one to join them. In those hours, Peter had already developed a sense of relief that they hadn't chosen to do this in a hospital, where they would likely have been in a crowded, stressed environment and given drugs to speed up the labour. When the contractions started to get harder and closer together, they stood together, holding hands and cradling each other as waves of pain rolled through Olivia's body. "It's a good pain," she'd tell him as she steadied herself against his frame, swaying with him, trying not to tense up as contractions approached but to surrender herself to the process. No matter how many times she told him this, he still worried for her, wishing he could take some of her pain away. He'd never felt so proud of Olivia as he did throughout the pregnancy and birth - watching her protectiveness and maternal instinct blossom was moving, and knowing that she whole-heartedly loved this child feircely and sweetly was very emotional for Peter.

All Peter knew of childbirth was the images of women screaming in excruciating agony and fear that he'd seen on TV. But seeing Olivia take such a wholesome and confident approach to their baby's birth was empowering to watch and be a part of. He would always admire his wife for her bravery through the pain – no dramatic screaming, just a gentle pace, lots of breathing and clenching grips on her husband's hands. She saw each contraction not as something to be dreaded but as a productive pain that would bring them that one step closer to meeting their baby. Their daughter's birth was not about pain or fear, but about overcoming this challenge together, and loving and supporting one another as they waited in hopeful excitement to meet their baby, bringing their status from a marriage to a _family_.

Then there was that moment – when Olivia pushed through her last big contraction, giving her all despite the pain, and their baby slipped from her body. They both cried and laughed with joy as the midwife laid their baby on Olivia's chest, all gooey and crying, and they'd laid eyes on her for the first time. Together.

She was perfect.

In the last week, that hadn't changed. Peter and Olivia have spent the last seven days getting to know their daughter, resting and seeing family and friends. They're both still in shock, still in awe at how drastically their lives have changed.

Now, in the middle of the night, he treads softly to her cot to check on her. He leans over and sees a tiny little girl wrapped tight in her blankets, lying with her arms by her head. Her eyes closed, she gently rubs her face as she fusses, whimpering and wriggling. She is beautiful – a thatch of dark hair, soft skin, long fingernails, delicate eyelashes. And freckles. Not as many as her mom, but enough for resemblance to show.

"Hey, little one," he whispers. "It's me, your Daddy. You up?"

The baby continues to fuss, not quite crying but definitely close. He knew she'd be awake at this time. Their baby's been waking up at 3am every night like clockwork, never changing routine, and after seven days of it Peter's learned to wake up before she does. He's insisted on doing this, since Olivia is still getting over the exhaustion, stress and hormone changes that follow giving birth. But during the day, they handle everything together.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" he asks her, gently picking her up and cradling her in his arms. The baby curls into his body, burying her face in the warmth of his skin. He loves this part of being with her – how she automatically responds to him, recognising his protective arms, his loving gaze, his familiar smell and his gentle voice.

He checks her over to see what she wants, but she doesn't seem to need anything. She isn't hungry or cold or needing to be changed. He rattles his brain to think of what could possibly be wrong. But when he holds her to his chest, swaying with her and whispering to her, she seems to settle. She hums and nestles against him, and he realises that she didn't need anything after all.

She just wanted him.

He shivers. Peter has always known he loves his daughter, even before he met her – but the idea that she recognises him and wants to be close to him too makes his heart swell with a fiercely protective love.

"It's OK, little one," he whispers to her. "Daddy's here. Daddy's right here."

In her first week of life, Peter still hasn't gotten over that feeling of shocked bewilderment, like he's been dreaming the whole thing. He can barely wrap his head around the fact that the warm, wriggling weight in his arms is his daughter. All the time Olivia was pregnant, that idea of "daughter" was just a concept. Holding her made her real. Even now, a whirlwind of emotions is overwhelming him - the worry, the joy, the apprehension, the fascination, the devotion, the protectiveness, the disbelief, the love. God, the love. That love that is all-consuming, all-sacrificing. That love that knows no bounds and conquers all fear. That love. He adores her.

"You just want some company, huh, little one?" he asks her. "I dunno, kiddo, I'm gonna have to check my schedule. I'm a pretty busy guy, you know."

But Andrea doesn't buy it. At the sound of his voice, she rubs her cheek against his chest, her little hands pressing against his skin and squeezing, like she's trying to hold onto him.

He smiles at her. "Just kidding, sweetheart. I'll always make time for you. We can hang out if you want," he says, going to a big comfy armchair in the corner of her room and sitting down with her.

Feeling the pad of his thumb stroke her cheek, the baby stirs and blinks her eyes, gazing curiously up at her father. Her eyes are green – like his when he was born, but also like her mother's. "You're so beautiful, darling girl," he whispers to her, feeling his emotions start to swell in him. "You're perfect…I can't believe you're mine."

In the last week, that's been his one overwhelming feeling – the disbelief that he helped create this stunning little creature. She was far too beautiful to have come from him, surely. His wife, of course. But not from him. That being said, the idea that the love he and Olivia shared for each other was so strong that it created a life was profound and moving for him. Magical, even. The whole concept of it was extraordinary, but that seemed fitting, because he and Olivia had always been something extraordinary.

His daughter continues to blink up at him, rubbing her face and sucking on her fingers adorably as Peter lets his fingertips brush through her dark hair. He believes her hair to be the one trait she got from him – the rest of her is all from his wife. That makes him glad. He wants his daughter to get as much from Olivia's side of the gene pool as she possibly can. "You look more and more like your mother everyday," he tells her. "You're way too pretty to look like me."

The baby just stirs a little in his arms, curling into the warmth of his chest sleepily, her little fingers scratching at his shirt as she tries to fist it in her palm. Reaching around, he grazes the back of her hand and lets her feel him, chuckling as she tries curling her hand around his pinky and squeezing. "Look at you!" he laughs. "So strong. Nobody's gonna mess with you when you grow up. Coz you're a fighter, Andie. A Dunham girl, that's for sure."

Leaning down a little, he brings his pinky, which she is clinging to, and lifts it to his lips, gently kissing her knuckles. "You feel so real," he murmurs. "For a long time I knew you were there, but I never got to feel you like Mommy did. It's like I'm only really getting to know you now. You remind me so much of your mother already. She's smart and beautiful and tough and I'm sure you'll be just like her. I hope you don't grow up like me. I made a lot of mistakes when I was young, but I'm getting better now. Your Mommy saved me from a lot of bad things, and I feel almost like you're saving me all over again. I'm going to be the best Daddy I can be to you, little one. I don't know what I'm doing, and it's a little bit scary, but I'll do my best, I promise."

He sighs, holding her close. "I had two Daddies when I was a little boy - one when I was a very little and one when I was a bit bigger. Did you know that, princess? Did you know you have two grandpas?" The baby smacks her lips and hums, snuggling against him. He smiles at how much she likes to be close to him, soaking in the feel of him.

"My Daddies weren't always very good at taking care of me," he tells her, his faint smile bittersweet. "So I want to make sure you have the best Daddy in the whole world. I'll always look after you, I promise. Your Daddy loves you so much, sweetheart. Since the moment I found out you were coming, I've loved you. You have to know that, OK?"

A little more awake now, his daughter rubs her face against his shirt, blinking her eyes, stretching her legs, flexing her fingers and toes. Peter laughs. "You like it out here, huh? Lots more room to move than when you were all curled up in Mommy's tummy."

The baby flails her arms and legs a little again before settling, finding a more comfortable spot in her Daddy's arms. She barely makes a sound. He lets his thumb graze her cheek again, looking down on her with so much pride. "Can you keep a secret, little one?" he asks her. "You're the most special baby in the whole world. And I'm not just saying that because I'm your Daddy. You're the only person in history who's ever had parents from different universes. You shouldn't even be here. You're a miracle, princess. You're so special. Did you know that? Did you know you're the first bi-universal child to ever exist? Pretty cool, huh?"

He can see her eyes begin to droop, she yawns a little and goes still in his arms. Then an idea strikes him. He starts to rattle his brain for a song, feeling like it's his fatherly duty to sing to her at a time like this. He doesn't remember any of his childhood before Walter brought him to this side, let alone the lullabies his mother surely would have sung to him to get him to sleep. He wishes that he remembered more of how his parents raised him – if he did, he might be a little less clueless as to how to raise his daughter. But he does remember a song that Rachael sang to Ella all the time before bed, and it's the first thing that comes to his head when its time to sing for his daughter.

"OK, darling girl," he says to her. "I'm gonna do something to help you get to sleep. But you can't tell anybody, coz Daddy has a tough guy reputation to uphold. Can you keep it a secret, princess? This is just between you and me. And be nice, Daddy's not a very good singer."

Her eyes droop closed again, and he begins to sing to her.

"_Woke up this morning, _

_smiled at the rising sun,  
>Three little birds by my doorstep<br>Singing a sweet song, _

_a melody pure and true  
>Singing, this is my message to you<em>

_Singing, don't worry 'bout a thing_  
><em>'Cause every little thing is gonna be alright<em>  
><em>Singing, don't worry about a thing<em>  
><em>'Cause every little thing is gonna be alright"<em>

The baby snuggles in his arms as he sings to her under his breath, making him amazed at the relationship they already have. "Look at what you've done," he chuckles. "You've turned me into a giant pile of goo."

He smiles down on his daughter, utterly smitten with her. The love he feels for her is joyous and fierce. He'd give her the whole world if he could, and would die to protect her from its dangers. But he is confident she'll grow up strong like her mother, always taking care of herself.

He has a good feeling about the woman she will become. A good feeling in his bones.

Of course, he is worried about the troubles she'll face in this world. And how to raise her. He doesn't know a damn thing about girls.

Actually, that isn't exactly true. In his time, he's learned a lot about girls – mostly how to hurt them, how to leave them, how to let them down time and time again. But he is determined never to hurt this one. Not on purpose. She and his wife are the two most important girls in his world, and all he wants is to learn from his mistakes and treat them right. The fear that he will be a terrible husband and father is very real to him.

Life feels so fast now that he has a child. There's this fear in him that he'll blink and she'll be all grown up, and he wouldn't have appreciated moments like this enough. Peter fears that he will lose her to rebellion in her teenage years, or that she'll leave home and get married and forget about him all too soon. And with all the horrors of the world he and Olivia fight off every day, it scares him that Andrea won't stay small forever.

He's never felt a love so terrifying before. With Olivia, he was always protective (overprotective according to her) and feared for her safety when they went on dangerous raids together at work, but he also respected his wife's strength and ability to look after herself. On the other hand, Andrea is in many ways defenceless, just an innocent child, and his overwhelming responsibility to make sure no harm ever comes to her weighs on his mind.

He sighs, memorising the feel of her curled close to him for protection and warmth. "Don't grow up too fast on me, kiddo," he whispers into her hair, wishing with all his heart that he could slow down time and keep them both like this just a little longer.

But for the time being, he pushes his fears and worries aside. As he looks down upon his little girl, all he feels is hope.

Looking over her, he recalls the tender words his mother used to say to him as a little boy. "_S'agapo, agapi mou_," he whispers in Greek to his daughter, leaning down and kissing her gently on the forehead as she closes her eyes to sleep.

_I love you, my darling. _

As his daughter falls asleep, Peter watches on, grateful for the two most influential girls in his life. Of all the women that had come into his world and turned it upside down, his wife and daughter had done it in the most profound and amazing way. He simply would be a lesser man without either of them – a far angrier, far more violent, far more _lost_ man.

Marrying Olivia and having this little girl with her are the only two things Peter truly feels he's done right in his life. He's grateful for both of them every single day – grateful to Olivia for all her love and support and friendship that sustains him, and to his daughter for the joy her discovery of the world brings him, almost like a second childhood. They are the two great loves of his heart. They are the only reason he's kept his life together, the only reason he tries each and every day to do right and be a good person.

After laying his daughter down to sleep and kissing her goodnight, he heads back into bed with his wife, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her hair affectionately. As he breathes her in, comforted by the warmth of her, he knows he's found peace. He knows that after all the wandering in his life, he's finally found his sanctuary, his family, his shelter. The people he belongs with. He is home.

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><p><strong>Please review! Not just on this chap but the story in general (i.e. did you have any favourite partsthings I could have done better?)**

**Hope you enjoy this chapter and that you've liked this story as a whole. I'm beginning to write a multi-chapter story like this about the men in Olivia's life and how they've changed her (her father and stepfather, first boyfriends, Lucas, Charlie, Lincoln, John, Peter, etc.). That won't be getting to you until I come back from overseas in February, so best wishes until then, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year : )**


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